In My Time of Rising
by Njchrispatrick
Summary: When Dean Winchester was 16 he experienced a loss that no one should have to feel. Twelve years later, he finds out it was all a lie and that he isn't as alone as he thought. Meanwhile Harry Potter is torn between two worlds and struggling to decide who he should trust. Will their broken pieces fit together, or will the secrets they hide tear each other apart?
1. What Once Was Lost

**A/N: Three people most responsible for this story and who I'd like to thank are: SoundedSummer, who helped me with specifics, The Silver Bullet, who REALLY helped me with legalities, andAnarchicMuse, who helped my motivation and listened to my rants. Which the other two have done as well.**

**WARNINGS: Allusion to past mpreg, future slash, sexual references, underage drinking, funky explanations**

* * *

A knock on the door drew Dean's attention away from his brother and to their father where he was hovering in the doorway. John still looked pretty beaten up but he smiled at Dean with relief in his dark eyes. "How you feeling, dude?" he asked, the slang sounding strange in his voice.

Dean gave a small shrug. "Fine, I guess. I'm alive.

John gave a small nod. "That's what matters."

"Where were you last night?" asked Sam, his voice carrying the distinct ring of suspicion.

John's gaze slid to Sam, the older man still calm and placid. "I had some things to take care of."

Sam gave a small nod, and when he spoke it was laced with sarcasm. "Well that's specific."

Dean sighed internally. "Come on, Sam."

Sam ignored him. "Did you go after the demon?"

"No."

"You know, why don't I believe you right now?"

John straightened and took a few steps forward. There seemed to be a heaviness in his movements, and when he spoke it sounded pleading. John Winchester never pleaded for anything in his life. "Can we not fight? You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just butting heads. Sammy, I, I've made some mistakes. But I've always done the best I could. I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?"

The fire drained out of Sam's expression. "Dad, are you all right?"

Then John smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm just a little tired. Hey, son, would you, uh, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?"

Sam nodded even though he was obviously worried. "Yeah. Yeah sure." He glanced at Dean before making his way around the bed and to the door.

Father and son watched the youngest leave before turning to face each other.

Dean knew his father better than anyone, and he knew that John was hiding something. He looked… sad. Regretful. John was a tough man, he didn't believe that either of those emotions ever accomplished anything, so why would he be so clearly displaying them? "What is it?"

John turned towards Dean, glancing at the floor, clearly avoiding Dean's eyes. "You know," he began, "when you were a kid, I'd come home from a hunt, and after what I'd seen, I'd be, I'd be wrecked. And you, you'd come up to me and you, you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd... You'd say 'It's okay, Dad'." He paused and swallowed before meeting Dean's eyes. "Dean, I'm sorry."

"What?"

"You shouldn't have had to say that to me, I should have been saying that to you. You know, I put, I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once." John sniffed. "I just want you to know that I am so proud of you."

Dean swallowed, unsure of what to say. "This really you talking?"

"Yeah," said John with another smile. "Yeah it's really me."

"Why are you saying this stuff?"

John stepped up to the bed, laying a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?"

"Yeah, dad, you know I will." He searched his father's eyes for the truth of what was going on. "You're scaring me."

A tear was visible on John's cheek. "Don't be scared Dean. Especially not now. You need to be strong." The man swallowed. "You need to be strong for him."

"For Sammy? Why-"

"No." John cut Dean off, gripping his shoulder tightly. "Not Sammy. Lord knows he needs you too, but please, Dean, listen." After a shuddering breath he spoke again. "Dean, I've made a lot of mistakes. With you, with Sam, with a hundred other people. Most of them I thought were the right decision. But I've hurt you and I don't think I can ever make up for it."

Dean shook his head quickly. "No Dad, stop talking like that, I'm fine."

John shook his head, silencing Dean. "No, Dean, listen." His son stopped talking. "I lied to you, all those years ago. I thought I was doing what was best for you."

Dean scanned John's face, desperate to understand. "What? Dad, please-"

"Fort Smith, Arkansas, Dean."

The man froze at the name, leaning back from John as his eyes widened. When he spoke again his tone was dead, emotionless. "What are you talking about?"

"Dean, I lied to you. About everything. I wanted to protect you-"

"No." Dean's voice was dark, anger audible just below the surface. "No, don't you dare."

John plowed on regardless. "You were only sixteen Dean, a kid, I thought it would be best for you."

"No!" Dean snapped, shoving John hard enough for the older man to stumble back. Dean's lips were pulled back into a snarl and he looked ready to attack his father. "No, you do not have the right to stand there and tell me it was all a lie!"

"I thought it was best for you!"

"I thought he died!" The anger vanished as quickly as it had come, turning to tears that appeared in Dean's eyes. "I cried for him every night! I still do! And you tell me he lived?"

John closed his eyes for a moment before nodding.

Dean let out a choked sob. "Where? Why?"

"You'd passed out. Missouri, she, she told me that he wasn't entirely human."

Dean stared at his father, uncomprehending horror written all over his face.

"I took him to the hospital while you were out. He was wrapped up in a blanket, crying his head off."

Dean was full-out crying now, thick streams of tears pouring from his eyes.

"It was busy in the emergency room, no one noticed me. I handed him to a nurse. She was too surprised to do anything and I hurried out." John had a few tears of his own. "Then I went back to you. Told you he died."

"You stole him," whispered Dean, shaking his head slowly. "You told me he was gone while he was really alive and safe."

"Dean…" John swallowed again. "I don't expect you to… ever forgive me…"

"Get out." Dean's tone brokered no argument, his eyes turned cold. "Get out or so help me I will kill you."

John opened his mouth once more in an attempt to reconcile with his eldest, but he stopped when he recognized the truth in Dean's voice. So, with a silent nod, he backed out of the room, the hateful stare of his son fixed on him the entire way.

"I am sorry, Dean," John murmured to himself as he made his way to the empty hospital room down the hall, his hand wrapped around the Colt. "I am so, so sorry."

* * *

_"Of course I'm coming with you, Dad!" Dean's tone was split between disbelief and indignation as he watched his father pack up a duffel bag with the weapons from the trunk. "You can't drag me all the way out here then dump me before the final stretch!"_

_John shot Dean an unamused look that shut him up. "This isn't about you, Dean. I brought you here with no promises that you'd be coming with me. I just can't afford to be watching your back this time, so I'm going in alone."_

_"That is such bull!" Dean exploded as his father swung the bag onto his shoulder and made for the door. "I'm not some little kid anymore, I don't need you to watch my back! How can you even think—"_

_John swung around and the thunderous expression on his face silenced Dean completely. His father stood there in the doorway, face like stone, before speaking. "Consider this a warning. I understand your frustration but next time you question me like that I'll make you regret it."_

_Dean swallowed and forced himself to nod in acceptance, hiding his shaking fists behind his back._

_"Good," John said with a firm nod. "I'll be back late, so here." He dug into his pocket and pulled out his credit card, flicking it onto the bed. "There's a bar down the road, not too far of a walk. Be back here tomorrow morning or I'm leaving without you. Got it?"_

_"Yes sir."_

_"Good," he repeated. He glanced around the room once before looking back at Dean. "Stay out of trouble." Then he closed the door behind him._

_Dean waited until the car pulled out of the lot before letting himself relax, chest shaking a little as he breathed out._

_"Damn."_

* * *

Sam ran a hand through his hair as he sipped his coffee, blinking the tiredness out of his eyes. He headed into Bobby's living room slash office, planning to check the news for a case, but what he saw made him pause for a moment before sighing and shaking his head.

The office was just as much a mess as it had been before Sam had gone to bed, papers strewn everywhere and books stacked up around the room. Dean was sitting at Bobby's desk, cellphone pressed to his ear, listening avidly to whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying. He had a pen in his hand and was taking notes on a pad of paper.

The younger brother grimaced as he went to sit on the couch, keeping his eye on his older sibling. Dean looked like hell. Dark circles lined his eyes and made it obvious how long it'd been since he'd slept. His hair was greasy and unkempt. He clearly hadn't shaved in a while, the thick stubble more than Sam had ever seen him with. Dean had run himself ragged in his quest.

Suddenly Dean spoke. "Are you sure?" What came next was likely a confirmation, because a broad grin split Dean's face, the first that his brother had seen since before the accident. "Yes! Great! I'll do that right away!" Then Dean hung up, tossing the phone onto the desk as he continued to grin.

Sam decided to speak up. "Good news, then?"

Dean jumped violently as he noticed Sam, which was yet another indicator that something was wrong; Dean was the ever-observant brother, he should have seen Sam walk in. "Sammy, how long have you been there?"

"Just a few minutes." He sipped his coffee. "Have you been up all night, Dean?"

The older man shrugged and leaned back in the chair. "It's not a big deal," he muttered, "I've done it before."

"Yeah but not several nights in a row. I know you've been barely been sleeping."

He shrugged. "So?"

Sam shook his head and sighed again. "Dean, running yourself into the ground isn't gonna help your search!"

"That's what you say!" interjected Dean suddenly, leaning forward to tear a sheet of paper off his notepad. "I finally got a hold of one of Da-John's old legal contacts, some lawyer he saved once who's now a bigtime judge."

Sam picked up on Dean's usage of their father's name. He was mad at John, something Sam could easily understand, but it didn't mean he liked it or understood it. His brother loved their father and somewhere deep down he was grieving, but the anger and betrayal he felt over whatever John had done was currently smothering it. "What did he say?" Sam finally asked, giving into Dean.

He grinned widely and slammed the paper down on the table. "I got it, Sam, I got it. He told me how to do it." The grin grew till it could have split his face. "And the best part is that I can do it right now."

Glancing from the mysterious list to his brother and back, Sam frowned. "Do what, Dean? Can you just tell me?"

"My son," Dean breathed, eyes gleaming brightly. "I know how to find him. I can finally get him back!"

The coffee cup slid from Sam's fingers and fell to the ground, smashing on the wood.

* * *

_The apartment building was completely vacant when John arrived, the foreclosure sign hanging by a thread on the fence. Even from the outside the place looked awful; part of the roof had collapsed, the windows were all broken and jagged, and plants had dominated what was left like they were trying to drag the entire structure down into the dirt._

_John kept his rifle cocked in his hands, pockets bulging with salt rounds. A bottle of spray paint was strapped to his chest just in case he got the opportunity to set a trap and exorcise the damn thing. He doubted it very much since it seemed like this was a trap for him, but he was nothing if not prepared._

_He made his way through the first floor, the memory of where the stairs were still fresh in his mind. It felt like eons since he'd lived in the one-bedroom apartment with Mary, right after he got back from the military and had been strapped for cash. They'd been on the third floor and used to have an awful time climbing up and down after a long day. There were spiders in the walls, mildew in the shower, and the toilet got clogged nearly every go._

_They'd loved it. It hadn't been much but it was their first home. And the knowledge that the demon was here, leading John into a trap in one of the few untainted memories he shared with Mary, burned in his gut like fire._

_He passed the second floor and headed up to the third. The burnt-out lightbulbs flickered weakly over his head and he could feel a chill in the air, a faint smell of sulfur tickling his nostrils. He clenched his gun tighter, the cold steel a comfort._

_All appeared barren but John didn't let himself be fooled by appearances. He headed down the hallway, shooting glances into the empty rooms as he passed. They were eerie, even for an experienced hunter like him; broken furniture left abandoned, doors hanging from their hinges, shadows around every corner waiting for something to jump out and attack._

_To his own surprise John made it all the way to the end without anything appearing to harm him. He stopped in front of the last door, number 18. It was closed but the knob turned when he tried it, the door opening with a long, slow creak and revealing his former home._

_Whoever had last owned it hadn't changed much. The carpet was still the same dirty beige it had always been, the walls still bearing tacky flower-print wallpaper. It sent a surge of nostalgia right down to John's core and he allowed himself just a moment to pause and take it in, remembering the pure bliss that had been his life before it all went to hell._

_That turned out to be his one mistake. He allowed his grip of the gun to relax, just slightly, as he turned, and that made it all-too-easy for it to be wrenched from his grasp and go sliding across the floor. He tried to grab it but his arms and legs froze, rendering him as inert as a statue._

_"Tsk, tsk," spoke a voice behind him, and John felt his blood run cold. A man stepped into his line of vision, emerging from the hallway to the bedroom, the shadows playing over his features not enough to disguise the gleaming yellow eyes hidden beneath a fringe of blond hair. The body he was in was of a young man in his twenties, and John knew that the physical resemblance to Dean couldn't be a coincidence. "I'd never thought you of all people would be so **careless**," the demon purred, voice deceptively gentle. One long finger tapped his chin in thought. "What was it my friends called you? He-Who-Cannot-Be-Surprised?" The demon grinned as if he found the phrase amusing, flashing pearly white teeth._

_"You cheated," John ground out, the words being forced from between frozen lips._

_The demon laughed suddenly, throwing his head back. "Of course I cheated you stupid man." He snapped his fingers and pointed to himself. "**Demon**."_

_John fought against the power holding him but couldn't move an inch. "Are you going to kill me?" he spat out as best he could._

_The demon paced in front of him, smirking down at him. "I could, yes, but where's the fun in that? Here I have John Winchester at my mercy. These sort of things only happen once you know." He paused and gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Well, twice, but who's counting."_

_John ignored the statement, fixing the demon with the harshest glare he could manage while being unable to move. "Then what?"_

_The demon pretended not to hear him as it walked along the wall, dragging its finger against the wallpaper. Where it touched the paper burned away, leaving a trail of crispy paper and a foul smell in the air. "I remember when you lived here," the demon said instead, looking around the room curiously. "You had that god-awful station wagon and Mary was a waitress. You'd come home and watch TV and be so disgustingly normal that it was a pain to see." He sneered down at John. "I fixed that, though. You got your quaint little suburban house and I got the perfect place to stage a fire. Everybody wins."_

_"You fixed that?" John asked, curiosity peaking at the demon's words and almost managing to stifle the foreboding he felt at the thought of the demon having been watching them for so long. Because that would mean that the fire was more than a random attack, that would mean…_

_The demon turned to look at him with its horrible eyes and smiled widely, and suddenly he wondered if it could hear his thoughts. "Oh John," it breathed, "you of all people should know that there are no such things as **accidents**. Everything happens for a reason, you're just a little meat puppet dancing to our tune."_

_John pushed and strained against the demon's hold but it just laughed at the effort. "Our?"_

_Suddenly the demon threw his head back and laughed; a long, chilling, not-quite-human sound that made the walls shiver and the birds outside go silent. "Look at you!" he cried out gleefully. "Stumbling around in the dark, too blind and stupid to realize you hold the light in your hand you just haven't seen it yet." He shook his head._

_John fought harder, even knowing that it was futile; hearing the demon mock him re-ignited the burning fire to see the thing die a horrible death for what it had done to Mary._

_The demon walked towards him, footsteps silent on the carpet. It bent down, hands curling around John's chin. "Stupid man," it whispered, "so stupid. Running in here with your guns in a hopeless attempt to kill me. You knew they would do nothing and yet you came anyway, hmm? A suicide attempt from a man with nothing to live for."_

_The demons released John's mouth from its grasp, both magical and physical, and he gave it a feral grin. "Well you came," he hissed, "so I consider this a victory."_

_The demon cocked an eyebrow and its smirk widened. "I didn't come for you John. There is a **far** more valuable prize I'm here for."_

_John wracked his brain in confusion but nothing came to mind. Then he froze. Unless…_

_"**Yessss**," it hissed, lunging forward until its face was nearly touching his. "**Where's Dean, John? Where's your son**?"_

_Gleaming yellow eyes burned into John like pools of acid, and he screamed._

* * *

Petunia Dursley hummed to herself as she bustled around her kitchen, the radio on and playing easy-listening music as she swept the floor. The curtains were open, letting in the fresh sunlight. It was a bit too cold to open the windows, but the atmosphere was still wonderful. Vernon and Dudley had gone to the cinema for the day.

It was her favorite time of the year. Christmas had passed a few months before so no bother from Vernon's deplorable sister, the freak was at school until the end of June, and her beautiful flowers would soon be sprouting. Everything was right with the world.

As Petunia wiped down the stove she absently wondered what her neighbor, Ms. Hattersham, was doing. She was quite the bizarre person, and Petunia could never figure her out. Living in a nice, clean, suburban house, but unmarried and with no family. None of the other women knew where she got the money or what she did, but the gossip was rampant. Petunia herself had contributed a few theories, most involving possible dalliances into the raunchier side of London. However, it was mere speculation. Perhaps if Petunia invited her over for tea one afternoon they could-

The ringing of the wall phone startled her from her thoughts and she frowned, wiping her hands off on her apron before walking over to it. It was probably Mrs. Lancaster, her husband was a dreadful bore so she would often call Petunia.

Petunia answered it. "Hello?"

Static crackled for a moment before a voice spoke, one assuredly not Mrs. Lancaster's. "Is this the Dursley residence?"

She blinked in surprise, leaning against the counter. "Yes, this is Mrs. Petunia Dursley, who is speaking?"

"My name is Philip Rogers, I'm a Social Worker in service of the Crown."

Petunia froze, her mind instantly going to the worst possible solution. Had the boy talked to someone, spewed stories about them to his freakish friends? The man calling worked for the government but she wouldn't be surprised if the freaks controlled it. "Why are you calling?" she managed to ask with a reasonable amount of innocence. "Is this about my son?"

"No," Rogers responded, "this is about your nephew, who is recorded as being in your care. Is this correct?"

She seriously considered lying. "Yes, yes he is, is something wrong?"

There was a short pause before the man spoke again. "Mrs. Dursley, a rather… delicate situation has sprung up involving your nephew. There has been question of his parentage by an American, who has provided enough evidence to gain approval for a blood test. We are complying with the American Department of Health and Human Services on this matter, and you will need to bring in your nephew within four work days for a DNA test."

Most of what he'd said had flown over Petunia's head, but she got the jist of it. Enough to know that he wonderful spring day could be about to become infinitely better. "A-Are you certain?" she stuttered out, grabbing her pearl necklace. "What does this mean for the b-for Harry?"

"It means, ma'am, that the possibility exists that he was illegally removed from his family's house, and if it is so, then, should blood relation be proven, they will gain custody.

Petunia covered her mouth to silence the squeal that otherwise would have escaped. She lifted her shoulder to hold the phone as she dug through the recently-cleaned drawers in search of a pen and paper. "Oh yes, I completely understand," she babbled, "if his parents truly have right to him and miss him, he should be with his family." She even worked in a fake sniff to sound realistically caring.

"I am glad you understand."

When she finally found the items she needed she began scribbling down a letter, making sure to not let the truth come out for fear that the old man would try to stop it. "My nephew is currently at a boarding school, I will write a letter to the school to have him returned so we can conduct a DNA test, and then I shall contact you. Is that alright?" Please let it be.

"Yes," responded the man. "That will do nicely. Thank you for your time Mrs. Dursley, and if you have any more questions you can contact me or my office. Good day."

"Good day to you, Mr. Rogers," Petunia replied. The moment he'd hung up she let the phone fall, focusing all her attention on the letter. It was short and to the point, exactly what she needed. Now all she had to do was brave the freakish wizarding alley that she'd visited with her sister and never been able to forget so that she could sent it, after which she could possibly be rid of the boy forever.

It would be completely and utterly worth it.

* * *

_"Dean? Dean!"_

_As soon as Dean opened the door to the motel room his father was right there in his face. Ignoring the way Dean winced, large hands reached out, grabbing Dean's shoulders tightly and holding him still as John's eyes raked over his body, and Dean could've sworn that he saw worry and maybe even **fear** in them. He tried to banish the thought, having never seen his father afraid, but his eyes didn't lie, even as dry and tired as they were._

_"Are you alright?" John demanded, pulling Dean towards the bed and shoving his butt down onto it. Dean grimaced as his father's voice incited his headache but nodded weakly. His hangover made the light seem too bright, his head pounding with every tiny movement and his muscles aching._

_"Yea, yea," he muttered, shielding his eyes from the early morning sun coming through the window. He cracked one eye and peered at his father, suddenly recalling why the man had been gone all night. "How did your hunt go?"_

_If John heard the question he ignored it, still checking Dean over with a worry that would've concerned Dean more if he wasn't so terribly hungover. "Where were you?" the man demanded, "I told you to be back in the morning!"_

_"It is morning." Dean waved weakly at the window in hopes his father would catch his drift and close the blinds. No such luck. "I had to walk back," he added, leaving out why his walk had taken so long. He still hurt a little._

_A scowl appeared across his father's face. "Tell me where you were." He demanded, tone brooking no argument._

_Dean's eyebrows rose in surprise at the intensity. "I was with someone," he answered truthfully._

_"Who?"_

_At the question Dean couldn't resist giving his father a strange look. John **never** asked that sort of thing before; the only thing he'd ever said in regards to Dean's sex life was to always 'wrap it up'. "I dunno," he answered truthfully. "I was kinda hammered."_

_"What did she look like? Did she say anything?"_

_"Dad, what is going on?" His father's many questions were starting to worry him a little bit. "Did something go wrong on your hunt?"_

_John jerked back, eyes widening for a second before he scowled. "Just answer the question, Dean."_

_Dean huffed and crossed his arms. "I was drunk, alright? I don't even remember his face let alone his name." Then he froze, eyes widening as he realized his slip._

_John paused and stared at Dean, expression inscrutable. "**His**?"_

_Dean's throat suddenly felt dry and he swallowed hesitantly. "I was drunk," he defended himself again, "I was feeling adventurous. I've never done that before." He scowled at his father, hoping his face wasn't as red as it felt. "What of it?"_

_His father continued to frown but didn't say anything, and Dean's heart was beating so loudly in his chest that it was a wonder the man couldn't hear it._

_"Be careful next time, alright? Don't go getting hammered with strangers; who knows what might happen." John stood from the bed and walked over to the mini-fridge, taking out a bottle of water and tossing it to Dean._

_Dean's breath whooshed out of him in relief when John didn't say anything about the accidental lay with a dude. It hadn't been intentional, and certainly nothing he'd ever done before, but he told himself that it was only because, as he'd said, he was **really** drunk and feeling adventurous. It wasn't like he'd done weirder things with chicks._

_"How did the hunt go?" He asked his father after he took a swig, hoping for a change in topic. "Did you find it?"_

_John paused for a moment, and Dean thought that the man might've swallowed, but then he just shook his head. "No, I was wrong; it wasn't what I was thinking of. Just a harmless ghost. Nothing major." He shot Dean a small smile, almost apologetic, which was certainly not the norm. "Sorry I left you out of it. Was just a normal salt-and-burn."_

_Dean shrugged off the apology. He didn't like it when his father apologized; it felt wrong. "No big deal, Dad," he answered with a grin. "No harm no foul, right?" He took another swig and missed John's full-body shudder. "So now we're gonna go back to Bobby's, right? Sammy's probably missing us."_

_"Yea," John agreed with a nod. "I was gonna take your brother to see that museum in D.C. he's been asking about."_

_"Oh yea, he'd like that."_

_"But first we'll go get some breakfast. Does a big greasy one sound good to you?"_

_Dean groaned, stomach revolting at the thought of eating, and hurried to the bathroom, just missing the way his father glanced out the window, only for the smile on his face to freeze at a blond-haired, yellow-eyed boy standing in right outside the glass, grinning like a madman._

* * *

_A glass shattered against the wall, shards of glass raining down like diamonds._

_"What the hell do you mean I'm **pregnant**!?"_

_John hid a wince at the screech his eldest let out, the yell loud enough to shake the windows. Missouri on the other hand was unimpressed with the decibel and simply gave him a flat, unimpressed look through her tinted glasses. "My mama gave me those glasses Dean Winchester, don't you go smashing another one!" she scolded, wagging her finger threateningly at him._

_Dean just stared at her from his spot on the couch, completely bewildered. "I can't get pregnant, I'm a guy!" This time the yell was softer and more of a whine, and the slight fear underlying it was more easily heard. "I can't be—I mean I'm not—" Dean took a deep shuddering breath and shook his head. "No!"_

_Missouri shot John a forceful look over the top of her glasses, the earlier words she'd spoken when imparting the information to him privately rearing their head. "**Tell him**," she'd demanded. "**Tell him or else you know it'll bite you in the ass**."_

_"How did this happen?" Dean demanded, gaze switching between them with burning intensity. John counted his lucky stars that Sam was back at Bobby's. "How the hell did **this**—" He jabbed at his stomach. "—**happen**!?"_

_John grimaced as his son looked pleadingly at him, desperate for some sort of answer, asking his father to tell him the truth. "A magic spell," he half-answered, clearing his throat and pushing off the wall. "I'd expect, anyway. Not your run-of-the-mill kind, either; this would take a powerful SOB."_

_"How did it happen?" Dean asked, looking back down at his midsection as if expecting it to do something to indicate what had happened. He touched it hesitantly. "I don't remember us hunting anything like that…" He trailed off and turned to look back at John, brow furrowing intensely. "Wait, Dad, what about that hunt in Kansas? You didn't tell me what that was all about."_

_John stiffened slightly, hopefully not enough for Dean to notice. He glanced over at Missouri to see her still holding that same expression from before. **Tell him the truth**._

_John dropped his gaze. "It was a witch." The lie slid easily off his tongue like the thousand others he'd told. "Pretty powerful one too. She was trying to summon some sort of god to give her power. She'd been cursing townspeople with all sorts of things." He hesitated, slipping a nugget of truth among the lie. "I didn't want you to get hurt."_

_Dean stared at him for a long moment before a bubble of laughter tinged with hysteria burst from his throat. "**Not get hurt**?" Dean hissed, pushing himself off the couch and storming towards his father. "I got fucking **knocked up**!"_

_The reprimand of "Language!" slipped from John's lips but Dean didn't notice, already on a roll._

_"I can't have a baby!" Dean near-shrieked, pacing around the room. "And how do I know it's not some sort of freaky monster that's gonna rip me in half? How?" He swung around to look at Missouri. "Do you know?"_

_The psychic's eyes slid over to meet John's for a moment. He gave a brief shake of his head, trying to send a silent message, but she just smirked and looked back at Dean. "It's not a monster," she said instead. "I'd know if it was, and it's no monster."_

_John's eyes widened furiously but neither of the other two noticed. Dean's shoulders relaxed slightly, the wind seemingly knocked out of him. "…oh." He blinked and glanced down for a second. "Are you sure?"_

_She rolled her eyes and reached a hand up to smack him lightly on the side of the head. "Did I stutter, boy? **No**, it's no more monster than you are."_

_John cleared his throat and stepped forward to draw their attention back to him. Missouri turned, face unimpressed with his interruption, but Dean still looked a little bewildered and had returned his gaze to his midsection. "Missouri," he growled out, "can I speak to you for a moment?"_

_A colossal sigh was his answer but she acquiesced, stepping around Dean and navigating through her cluttered living room towards him. "Not here," she said before he could speak, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him down the hall to an empty room. She closed the door behind her and turned to look at him, hands on hips._

_John loomed over her, face solid and eyes burning. "Why did you tell Dean all that?" he hissed angrily._

_"Why didn't **you** tell him the truth?" She returned coolly. "Your boy deserved to know the truth and you pull some crock-and-bull crap about a witch?"_

_"I did that to **protect** him. If you go telling him that it isn't a monster then he might start wanting to keep it!"_

_Missouri just scowled. "I didn't lie John, I'm not you." She huffed. "That thing's no more monster than you are. Even less so I'd imagine. I just never said it was **human**. But I understand to you there's no difference, huh? You'd kill your own child if you thought he was **tainted**."_

_John reared back, the words cutting more than he expected, and Missouri took the chance to open the door and step out, giving him one last cold look. "You'd better take care of your boys now, John," she warned, "otherwise a day might come where the monster they're hunting is **you**."_

* * *

Dean knew that his father was against the idea of him having a baby. The moment they left Missouri's house his father approached him about the idea—about how, even if the kid might not be a monster (his father seemed reluctant to believe Missouri even though he'd told Dean to do just that), it still wasn't natural or right. He told Dean that since it was made through magic it might be tainted with that magic. He brought up a hunter-turned-doctor he knew in Maine who would be able to perform the surgery needed to dig the thing out of Dean, magic or no magic.

At the time it had gone in one ear and out the other. He was still in shock, not quite sure what to feel. He'd seen magic spells do a lot of things in the past—bring machines to life, turn paintings real, cause unbridled destruction and mayhem—but he'd never anticipated that their lives could have an effect like this. He'd always thought that, if anything, he'd lose a limb or an eye or grow a mouth on the back of his head or something. Normal weird. Not be able to be friggin' knocked up like some teenage girl messing around behind the bleachers.

Reality reared its head soon after, however, when Dean started getting slammed with violent bouts of nausea, headaches, and cramps so bad he'd end up lying in bed for hours on end. It had been utterly awful and he almost gave into his father's offer if only to stop it.

But time went on and it all slowed down, and Dean still wouldn't say yes to John's offer. He wavered, sometimes even came very close, but couldn't bring himself to say yes. Every time he'd be considering it he would see some stupid sappy ad on TV, or tuck Sammy into bed, or even just pass a random little kid and remember that he could quite possibly become a parent. Sure, he was only about to turn seventeen, but he hadn't considered himself a child in a long time.

His father hadn't been quite so understanding. They'd had plenty of arguments about it as time passed and Dean still wouldn't agree, especially since John's friend had warned against completing the procedure once they passed a certain time. Finally push came to shove and Dean had told his father on no uncertain counts that he was keeping it, origins be damned. His father hadn't taken it well.

But still, even with all of that, Dean had never, never thought his father would do such a horrific thing as pretend his son had died. He'd always told himself that, no matter their disagreements, John loved him and would accept his choices. He had, mistakenly it seemed, thought his father respected him enough.

And Dean paid the price for that misplaced trust. He and his son both did, and for that he could never forgive his father. Not now, not ever, and even when the man was found dead Dean couldn't find a scrap of sadness or pity under the torrent of anger. In his mind, nothing suited John Winchester more than a fate to burn for eternity.

* * *

Dean held his breath as the judge opened her mouth to speak, knowing that whatever she said would determine everything for him. His lawyer had assured him that their case was completely solid, what with all the effort Dean was putting into finding his son and how little the boy's guardians cared, but he couldn't help but worry.

"The court has decided…"

He could feel how sweaty and clammy his palms were and would have wiped them on his pants if he wasn't so tense. Dean had spent an hour getting ready the morning before, wanting to make the best impression on the judge, the lawyers, and most importantly…

"...that it is in the best interests of the child…"

Why couldn't she just come out and say it? One word, yes or no.

"...Harry James Potter…"

What would his name have been if Dean had been the one to raise him?

"...that Dean Winchester…"

Oh God, this was it, he was going to be banned from ever seeing his son. Dean bit his lip and closed his eyes tightly. He wished Sam was there.

"...is the best choice of guardianship for the minor in question."

Dean's head snapped up when he heard what she'd said and his eyes grew huge. A hand on his shoulder directed his attention to his appointed lawyer, who had a small smile on his face as he gave Dean a single nod.

They'd won. Somehow they'd won. Somehow Dean was believed to be a capable adult role model, which meant…

Suddenly Dean felt the urge to puke but held it in. He managed to compose himself as he stood and thanked the judge and lawyers, a goofy grin seemingly stuck on his face. He couldn't help it. If anything it made the judge appear to like him more because she smiled back.

The door behind Dean opened and he turned, expecting to see the men leaving, but apparently there was something, or rather someone, of greater priority. All the air vanished from Dean's lungs and he was torn between crying and fainting.

The boy was small, small like Sam had been at that age. He didn't look twelve. That was only complimented by his appearance; thick messy black hair, delicate features, and huge green eyes that were so Dean it almost hurt. He looked a lot like Dean had at that age and the realization made Dean's heart clench further.

The boy, Harry, looked so lost. His arms were crossed and he was biting his lip in obvious nervousness. His gaze flicked from person to person before it finally settled on Dean, meeting the matching emerald orbs. Father and son looked upon each other for the first time ever.

As if on instinct Dean lowered himself to one knee, closer to his son's height. Harry looked ready to turn tail and run but at the same time he seemed to have set his jaw, as if readying himself. He looked like a scared animal and it cut Dean to the core.

The other members of the room faded away, Dean's focus narrowing to the nervous twelve-year-old. "Hi," he spoke softly, offering Harry as small a smile as he could manage. "My name is Dean." He reached his hand out slowly, realizing how small a distance was between them.

Harry stared at the hand with trepidation, his arms unfolding but remaining at his sides. He looked from Dean to the hand. His own right hand twitched but he seemed reluctant. However, Dean kept his hand still, ignoring the urge to pull the boy into a hug and never let him go.

Then, ever so slowly, Harry began to raise his arm. When his hand finally met Dean's it was as cold and clammy as Dean knew his own were probably. It felt small in his own, fragile, like he remembered his brother's. But different at the same time.

"Hi," murmured Harry. It was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever heard and he couldn't hold back a full smile. "I'm Harry."

"Yea." There was a definite awkwardness to the situation, one the hunter wished could go away, but it also made the situation all the more real. "I'm your dad, Harry. And I won't ever let you go again."

* * *

**A/N: This is a variation of my original story idea. However, the original has been giving me some trouble so I decided to write up this. In the original Harry was eighteen, and it began in a much later season. ****This will be continued, the 'when' is up for debate. I will continue to write on this until the other version works, when I will work on _that_, and so one and so forth.**

**As for things like pairings and details, this is during 2nd year in the HP timeline. Harry will NOT be paired with anyone. This will eventually be Destiel, but it could be a very long time. Don't yet have a Sam pairing, feel free to tell preference in review UNLESS it is Gabriel; I do not ship Sabriel and won't write it, at least not in this.**

**So what are opinions? Any questions WILL be answered, and if I forgot an important detail or something tell me politely and I can add it in. We all make mistakes, I for one am prone to missing details. I like reviews, though flames really accomplish nothing. Don't like the plot? READ SOMETHING ELSE. Eesh, some people.**


	2. Has Been Found

**A/N: Hello everyone! First off, sorry sorry for the long wait, I know it must have irritated many of you. But I had my reasons! Same for the deletion of the original Chapter 2.**

**To be honest, I hated the original Chapter 2. It was rushed and just blegh. It left me stuck for a while. So finally I just pretended it didn't exist and rewrote it from there. I only deleted it recently because I felt it was time.**

**More in bottom A/N.**

* * *

_Harry scowled to himself, scribbling furiously on his paper as he tried to copy down the text from the book as quickly as he could. Snape always felt the need to ask for huge essays on very specific topics, making it very, very hard for anyone except Hermione to actually fill the entire length._

_He glanced over at his ginger companion, rolling his eyes as he caught a glimpse of Ron's essay, its owner more focused on lining up his Chocolate Frog Cards on the table beside it. He'd claimed to have finished, and it __**was**_ _the correct length, but Ron had skived off doing the whole thing by writing his text really large._

_Not for the first time, Harry wished they used lined paper. Unfortunately, according to Hermione when he brought it up, parchment conducted magic better or something like that. Personally Harry thought it was just an excuse for them to not have to break tradition._

_A loud grumble from Ron interrupted Harry's thoughts and he rolled his eyes as his best friend made a dramatic flop onto the library table, beating his head against it dramatically. "I am only missing one card!" he grumbled, huffing loudly. "I still can't find Agrippa and George won't trade me his even though he's got like four."_

_Harry's lips twitched slightly. This was why he liked Ron; he was so… carefree. Normal. Kinda like how Harry wished he could have been, had he not lost his parents as a baby. Not having to worry about things like being the Heir of Slytherin and the entire student body being out to hurt him because of that._

_Ron groaned once more, but any further griping was halted when Hermione returned from her self-imposed mission to seek out any information to disprove the claim that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin. Unfortunately she hadn't found anything yet; Salazar Slytherin was the first proven Parselmouth in history, and since him almost every known Parselmouth since then had been a Dark Witch or Wizard. Also, without a highly illegal family tree spell, there was no way to tell if he was a distant descendant of the man. Though that hadn't stopped his bushy-haired friend from trying._

"_Oh __**honestly**_ _Ron!" the muggleborn exclaimed as she dropped several thick books right next to Ron's head, causing him to help as he jerked away. "Stop being so childish! We need to figure out how to prove that Harry isn't the one behind the petrifications."_

_Ron crossed his arms. "As if Harry could do something so evil! I bet it's Malfoy, the ferret, he even said that he thought the Heir was doing the right thing."_

_Hermione sighed in exasperation, dropping into the chair opposite the two boys. "Malfoy said that but it doesn't prove anything. Frankly I don't know if he is smart enough." A smirk appeared on her face as Ron choked in surprise before busting out laughing._

"'_Mione, I didn't know you could be so mean!"_

_Both started laughing, Harry joining in. However, the mood was instantly killed when a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy walked up to the table. The sour, slightly constipated, expression on his face explained everything._

_He cast a short glance at Harry before turning to Hermione. "There are two open spots over at my table," he said, gesturing to the Hufflepuff table over against the wall. The many yellow-and-black clad students made it look like it had giant bees on it. "If you want… better company." He shot a threatening glare at Harry, though it wasn't exactly threatening._

_Still, Harry winced and sank down into his chair, good mood evaporating. Ever since he spoke to the snake during the Dueling Club, his life at Hogwarts had gone from great to terrible. Everyone had apparently decided that not only was he the Heir, but it was their job to make him know exactly how much of a monster they thought him to be. Dead snakes in his dinner, charming his clothes with a Slytherin crest, tripping him whenever he walked down the hall. And that was just the younger students. The older ones, the more experienced, were worse; hexes left in his bed that caused his sheets to turn to snakes, ambushing his friends to hurt him, and worse. He told the teachers, but only McGonagall and Flitwick seemed to care, and even they couldn't stop everything._

_Hermione's hair seemed to frizz as she visibly angered, lips pulling back into a sneer. "I think I am fine here," she snapped, scowling at the Hufflepuff. "I would rather stay with my __**friend**__, instead of a bullying idiot who doesn't bother to use his brains."_

_The Hufflepuff boy blinked, then scowled back at her, crossing his arms. "Fine! If you want to stay with him, don't come crying to me when he kills your friends and family!" He stomped his foot before turning and storming back to the other table._

_Hermione sighed, running a hand through her hair and looking at Harry pityingly. "I'm sorry, Harry." She gave a weak smile. "They're just being stupid. They don't remember all the good you've done, and that if you were really the Heir I doubt Dumbledore would let you stay."_

"_I guess." Harry looked down at the table, scratching his nail against the wood._

_Why couldn't he just get a nice, easy year after what happened last year? He had to deal with the Philosopher's Stone hidden in Hogwarts, and Quirrel, and the revelation of Voldemort somehow being alive without a body. But no, for some reason he had to have some bizarre ability to speak to snakes at the same time a monster belonging to a man __**known**_ _for that gift started roaming Hogwarts. It was like he was just destined to always have to be in the spotlight._

"_It'll get better," Hermione consoled him. "Really, I'm sure. Things can't be bad forever, right?"_

_Why did he feel like she just jinxed it?_

* * *

_Planes were… odd. Harry had seen them before, flying overhead, and occasionally on the telly when his relatives watched shows, but certainly never from the inside. The sensation of flying on one was decidedly different from flying on a broom. There was no wind in his hair, no stomach-dropping exhilaration as you dove towards the ground. The most he'd felt in the plane was a mild shaking. Though he'd admit the view from his little window was much cooler, high above the clouds where Hooch mentioned brooms couldn't reach without breaking apart. The sun on the solid layer of clouds was incredible. It almost distracted him from the nerves he felt about reaching the destination._

_Part of him wished he could just stay on this plane forever, never land and face what he'd find there. Sure he'd experienced a fair amount of worry and panic the days before, back at his relatives' house, but now it was much more __**real**_ _for him._

_He was going to be meeting his dad. Not James Potter, but a stranger who Harry had never even seen a picture of. Dean Winchester, his aunt had told him. An American who'd somehow managed to find out he was Harry's father and come looking for him._

_Harry didn't understand, and he still didn't totally believe Petunia. How could his dad not be James? People always told him how much they looked alike. How happy his parents were together. But they couldn't have been so happy, could they? If his mother cheated on his dad, if Petunia was right._

_He pulled his knees up onto the seat, wrapping his arms around them and propping his head up on his knees._

_Maybe they were wrong. Maybe it was just a mistake. That had to happen sometimes, right? Maybe it would be obvious as soon as he saw this 'Dean' guy. Then he could go back home, back to Hogwarts, back to the life he __**knew**__._

_But deep inside, something told him it wouldn't be that easy._

* * *

Dean watched, trying not to let his emotions show on his face, as Harry read down the menu in front of him. His eyebrows were scrunched up and he was frowning at it like it was written in a foreign language-Dean had checked, it wasn't. He chewed on his lip as he did so, an obvious nervous tick. Dean had a feeling that the kid was itching to look up at him but knew if he did their eyes would meet. Just the same, it made for a very cute picture.

The hunter felt like he was in a state of shock. He wished Sam was there, his brother was terrific at getting rid of awkward silences, and he was better with kids than Dean was. He'd probably have gotten Harry to open up within minutes, maybe asking about his life, or school, or friends, or something else that a kid would feel comfortable with.

God, this was his _son_. Not a minute would go by without that fact slamming into him, making it hard to breathe. This was the baby he'd carried for nine months, the one he'd thought had been dead and gone for over a decade. Never got to hear his first cry, never got to hold him… weeks, months, _years_ trying to forget, trying to get rid of that weight, and suddenly he finds out that all of it was a lie.

Not for the first time, Dean had the urge to pull the kid into a hug and never let him go. Hold him close, keep him safe, make sure nothing bad could come and hurt him, make sure no one could ever take him away.

But, no matter how much he _wanted_ to, he knew he couldn't. Hell, he'd only had his son (_His son!)_ back for an hour. They were still like strangers. He didn't miss the wary glances Harry shot at him, the way he subtly shifted away from Dean, how he had neglected to say anything since that simple, wonderful "Hi".

And it hurt. Hurt like a bitch. Because the moment he saw Harry, Dean _knew_. He couldn't explain it, he could only guess it was fatherly instinct or something like that, recognizing his kid on sight. However, it was a one-way emotion, if Harry's closed-off expression meant anything.

Dean felt a flash of white-hot anger at his father and he clenched his fists tightly beneath the table, though making sure not to let Harry see it. He just couldn't smother the _hatred_ he felt for his dad, a boiling anger that he'd never believed he could feel towards the man who raised him. He'd spent all those years letting Dean suffer, lying to him, when he could have had his son back. It was _his_ fault he was a complete stranger to his own kid.

"See anything you like?" he finally spoke, breaking through the invisible barrier between them. His throat was dry and it came out a little croaky, but it was better than nothing.

At the words Harry's eyes flicked up, unintentionally meeting his own, causing his chest to tighten. Those were _his_ eyes, from the bright green shade to the curve of the brow. It was like an extra reminder, almost a reassurance, that this really was his son.

But then the moment was broken as Harry looked back down, shrugging slightly, not responding. Dean felt himself deflate slightly. He hated this awkwardness, he _hated_ the uncertainty. Wasn't he supposed to like, magically know what to do or something? Parental instinct or something?

He crossed his arms, leaning against the table, wracking his brains in an attempt to find an icebreaker. He didn't miss the way Harry leaned back against the bench, like he was trying to keep away from Dean. Dean pushed down the sour taste in his mouth, telling himself that the aversion wouldn't last forever.

He cleared his throat. "So, uh…"

Harry's fingers tightened on the menu and he bit his lip, but didn't look up.

Dean hesitated, suddenly unsure, but forced himself through. "Look, uh, I know this must have been a real shock, you know… finding out… all this," he finished weakly. He wished the kid would put the menu down and look at him, but he didn't dare try to force it. "Did, uh… did your… did they ever tell you?" He couldn't bring himself to say '_family'_.

Finally, _finally_ Harry tore his eyes from the menu and looked up at him.

* * *

Harry swallowed as he looked at the man, his throat closing up as he tried to speak. What was he supposed to say to that? _Of course! I totally knew my mother cheated on my dad and never told him or anyone else about it._ Not very likely.

Half of him wanted to sink into his chair, the other half wanted to make a break for it. It wasn't that far from the booth to the door, he could probably make it before Dean realized what was happening and came after him…

That train of thought quickly died out as he realized it really wouldn't accomplish anything if he had no way to get home. If there even was an American Ministry of Magic he had no clue how to get their attention, or even if they would let him go home.

Once again he wished he could've brought Hedwig. Actually if he'd known what, exactly, was going on, he'd have brought several other things as well. But now he was stuck in a foreign country with only his wand and Cloak, with no way to contact his friends or Professor Dumbledore.

He wondered what they'd have said if they heard about this. It wasn't like he had turned out to be Voldemort's kid or something-he shuddered at the thought-but that didn't mean people wouldn't care. James Potter was a hero, as was Lily, and finding out that they weren't the beacons of light they were always portrayed as…

Harry felt mildly guilty thinking that about his mother and… stepfather. After all they had still raised him for a year and _died_ for him. But then, at the same time, he'd never really _known_ them; they were just names and faces, tied to little things. "You have your mother's eyes", "You look just like your father", "James obviously passed his Quidditch skills down to you", and stuff like it. Which apparently wasn't true, considering.

At least it ruled out the possibility of him being the Heir of Slytherin. If his… if _Dean_ was a muggle, like he seemed to be, and Lily was a muggle_born_, didn't that mean he couldn't possibly be related to some old dead bigot? Hermione had brought up that James was from an old family, so maybe the power was recessive or something, but this ruled that out.

It actually made Harry feel a bit better.

However, that didn't change the fact that now he had a _dad_. A dad who had come searching for him, taken him away from the Dursleys, and who was currently sitting across from him, looking saddened at Harry's silence.

He tried to quash down the guilt, but it wasn't easy. Truthfully, while part of him wanted to run, an even bigger part of him was curious. Curious to learn more about this Dean guy.

"So, uh…" He hesitated before gathering the Gryffindor Courage that he supposedly had and pushing through. "How did you know my mother?"

* * *

Dean had, unfortunately, just taken a sip of his water when Harry suddenly spoke, and at the question he choked in surprise, and had to take several moments to cough and clear his throat, all the while Harry looking at him with a mildly unnerved expression, no doubt worried Dean was about to keel over and die in front of him or something.

"Y-Your mother?" The man finally asked, clearing his throat once more as he frowned. He had no clue what the kid meant by that. Why would he think Dean knew his...

Then it hit him and his eyes widened as he realized, suddenly feeling monumentally stupid. _He thinks I slept with his adoptive mother_. It wasn't such a strange assumption, but Dean had been hoping to avoid any mentions of Harry's mother-seeing as how he didn't really have one. After all, how the heck was he supposed to tell him that he was the result of magic-induced drunken gay sex?

He really, _really_ didn't want to have to lie to his son. His da-... _John_ had done that for years and it was one of the many reasons Sam held a grudge against him. Even Dean would admit that he got fed up with the lies sometimes. But then, telling Harry the truth wasn't really an option either. He was only twelve years old, even if he believed him about all the horrible evil things that existed, it could scar him for life.

"Erm…" He hesitated. "Did… did your aunt tell you about what was going on?"

Dean hadn't had a chance to speak with Harry's adoptive aunt, which he found a little weird, but apparently she'd been very accommodating about all this. According to the records Harry's adoptive parents had been killed when he was little, though it didn't say why.

Harry frowned and shook his head.

The hunter grimaced internally, wishing he didn't have to be the one to do this part of it. "I, uh, never knew your mother," he confessed. Harry's eyes widened and he clearly wanted to ask something, but Dean continued. "It's not… it's not like you think. We didn't…" He suddenly felt uncomfortable. "They weren't actually _related_ to you."

Harry's mouth opened slightly and his eyes grew wide in shock. "B-But.." His voice was weak and he looked completely lost. "I thought…"

Dean wanted to reach over and pat Harry's shoulder, or even better just hug him or something, but he had a feeling that would do more harm than good. "Your aunt didn't tell you that you were adopted?"

Harry took a shaky breath at the word and swallowed. "No," he muttered, eyes lowering to stare at the table. "I don't think she even knew…"

Dean grimaced. He hated being the one to drop the bombshell on the kid, he had enough to deal with already.

Then Harry looked back up at him, expression a tad freaked, but also highly confused. "But then how did you know about..?" He trailed off again but the intent was clear.

At that Dean shifted uncomfortably. Why was he getting all the tough stuff _now_? "My, uh, my dad just died," he confessed after a long pause. "He told me, right before." Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "See, my dad didn't approve of me, uh, having a kid so young, so he…" A foul taste grew in his mouth. "He gave you up for adoption. He told me you hadn't made it."

Dean tried to ignore the weight in his stomach as he remembered that evening in the hospital, his dad and the hunter-turned-doctor telling him his baby hadn't made it. He hadn't been able to eat for days, it finally took Sam nearly force-feeding him for it to happen. It was the longest John had stayed in one town in Dean's entire life; seven months, most of which he spent in bed. And even after that the pain hung around, appearing at random times, almost worse than the first.

The dark eyebrows drew together and now he looked somewhere between disgusted and horrified.

Feeling a sudden urge to appease him, Dean continued; he'd never been very good at lying to people he cared about, but hopefully the kid wouldn't notice. "It was my old girlfriend," he found himself saying, the same lie he'd been planning on telling other people back when he first found out. "We weren't really serious, but… stuff happened and I left. Er, a few weeks later she called me to tell me she was pregnant."

In his opinion the lie sounded shaky at best, but it had successfully distracted Harry from the other, more life-changing realizations. While he certainly felt better about doing that, the little voice in the back of his mind wondered what would happen when the truth came out.

But right now, Harry was hanging on his every word, obviously wanting very much to know more about his make-believe mother and what had happened when he was born. So Dean obliged him.

Still, in the back of his mind, he wondered what Harry would say if he knew magic was real.

* * *

He tapped his index finger against the desk, his wrinkled old face pulled into a tight frown as he once again read the letter clenched tight in his other hand. Over and over the messily scribbled words, written on a sheet of torn notebook paper, circled his thoughts.

Albus Dumbledore laid it down on his desk and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes with a sigh. He plucked a sherbet lemon from the crystal bowl on his desk and sucked on it, letting the tang sing through his taste buds as he looked out his window, to the thunderstorm outside. It helped distract him from the worrisome letter, sent by one Petunia Dursley.

'Family matters', she'd given as her reasoning for recalling her nephew in the middle of the school year. Had Dumbledore been a swearing man he would have called bull on that. He knew that Petunia did not love her nephew, something that he could not understand, and the cruel woman would never ask for _more_ time with Harry. Dumbledore wished he could have placed Harry somewhere, anywhere, else, but since he was only a Headmaster, should the boy be taken from his relatives the Ministry would decide his fate. He'd even debated taking the boy in himself and raising him in Hogwarts, but it would never have worked.

Even more worrisome was what Arabella Figg had reported from around the time that Harry was asked to return. According to the squib, Petunia had been showing a clear air of excitement, something Arabella had never seen. Her husband Vernon had reflected that. Then, when Harry had returned, Petunia had taken him with her on a car ride and been gone for several hours. When they returned she'd gone from happy to clearly ecstatic, while poor Harry just looked confused.

Dumbledore did not know what to do. Legally his hands were tied; even his status as Chief Warlock did not aid him in the intricate legalities of childcare. He'd managed to push it through before simply due to the confusion apparent right after Voldemort's fall and the lack of true leadership. Cornelius Fudge would get first say and the Headmaster knew that his first say would be sending Harry to live with the Malfoys. The poor boy would never survive there.

An even larger complication was the current trouble with the Chamber of Secrets. It would only be a matter of weeks until the Board would be pressured enough to evict him from his position, and Hogwarts would be in even more hot water. There was no Tom Riddle to pin the blame and stop the attacks, at least Dumbledore hoped not, so whatever arrant fool had been tricked into opening it, the old man desperately hoped that they would come forward.

If not, nothing would ever be the same again.

* * *

**A/N: _IMPORTANT:_ THERE IS A SLIGHT ALTERATION FROM THE HP CANON TIMELINE IN THAT THE DUELING CLUB INCIDENT OCCURS EARLIER-THIS WILL NOT AFFECT THE STORY MUCH BUT IS IN ORDER TO ALLOW ME TO STRETCH OUT THE TIME MORE. (As well as a possible Christmas special chapter.)**

**Ta-da! Long awaited new chapter. I wasn't originally planning on posting this so soon but I was re-reading your old reviews and they were too sweet. I have a new plan in regards to this story, which, aside from this chapter as a gift, I am sticking too; I am not going to be posting ANY MORE until I finish writing through Season 2, so expect a bit of a wait, though hopefully not more than a month as I am getting into the episodes now. I just finished Chapter 5, and these early chapters are the hardest, as breaking the ice while not making it too rushed was very, _very_ hard for me. But I managed it!**

*****Thanks so much for all your constant support, especially _ProngsPotter_22_, _who has written an amazing companion piece to this fic, called _Gone With the Wind_, which I loved to much I am accepting it as part of this universe's "canon". So read it! Link is on my profile.**

**I know there is a lot of curiosity about Harry's "other dad", but don't hold your breath. It will be quite a while before THAT comes out-to those of you who know, DON'T SPOIL IT-but I know exactly how I am going to do it. I have planned almost all of this story's basic ideas, now I just got to fill it in.**

**Lastly, sorry for the shaky-ness of some of these scenes, but it's harder than I thought to write first meeting scenes. And if any of you are having trouble picturing Harry, I am thinking of young JENSEN, as such I altered the picture for this story to mimic how I see Harry. Except dark hair.**

**Reviews make it easier and more fun! All welcome! (Though flames just make me laugh, and feel kinda good since my story is popular enough to entice flamers.) I am ALWAYS welcome to new ideas for the plot, for any episode! (In fact ideas for specific episodes would be awesome, as those can be hard. I think I have most of Season 2 all nicely cut out, but...)**


	3. Uncertainty

Harry sat in a small second-story room of the run-down old house he was currently staying at, where Dean had brought him earlier that day. According to the man it belonged to a pseudo-family member of his named Bobby, whom Harry had only shared a brief greeting with. Dean had assigned Harry the room at the end of the upstairs hall and told him to make himself comfortable, and that he could come downstairs when he was done for dinner.

Truthfully Harry did not have much to unpack, so instead he left his suitcase by the bed and sat on it, after withdrawing his wand from the case. He left his photo album on the bottom, wrapped tightly in his Invisibility Cloak. Hopefully they would stay hidden there; he wasn't sure how he would explain moving pictures to Dean.

He stared at the wand in his hands, absently running his thumb up and down the base of it, the polished wood smooth against his skin. He'd been debating with himself for several long minutes, whether or not to give in to the growing urge and just cast a spell in order to draw some attention to his current situation.

The memory of the warning he'd received after Dobby's little stunt at the end of the summer was still fresh in his mind. And, while he knew it could possibly lead to his expulsion, he _also_ knew that for a letter to come there would need to be an owl. An owl who could take a letter back, and hopefully get Professor Dumbledore's attention.

And yet… Harry found himself hesitating every time he raised his wand to cast a spell. He knew, he _knew_ he needed to do this, if only to stop any worry his friends might be experiencing, but every time he tried he would stop midway. Because he would suddenly remember the way Dean looked at him when they met, and how he hadn't once stopped looking at Harry that way. Like he was the only thing in the whole world that mattered.

So, sighing for the umpenteenth time in the last hour, Harry let his wand hand fall, tossing the polished stick of holly onto his pillow. He drew his legs up onto the bed, hugging them against his chest and turning his head to look out the window on the opposite wall. Through it he could see the horizon and setting sun, lighting up the sky a brilliant red and gold, the light reflecting over the twisted heaps of metal covering Bobby's front yard.

Harry wished he knew what to do. He was more conflicted than he'd ever been in his life, and it was eating away at him like one of Snape's toxic potions. On the one hand, he was pulled from Hogwarts by his non-aunt, shipped off to America, and sent to live with a stranger who he was apparently related to, all without anyone knowing about it. But on the other hand, said stranger was the first person Harry could ever remember being nice to him and caring just for being himself, not the Boy-Who-Lived or a friend of a family member. Sure he didn't seem to know about magic, but did that really matter? They were family.

_Of course_, Harry's cynical side reminded him a moment later, _so was Petunia. Or at least, so she thought, and look how well that turned out_. She'd despised him from the moment he entered her life, and passed that loathing onto her husband and son, all three of them making his childhood absolutely miserable.

_Dean's different_, he wanted to tell himself. _He cares about me. He came to find me the first chance he could._

But then, it was all too easy to counter his own responses. _Did he?_ The cynical side was back, like a little snake cooing in his ear. _How well do you __**really**_ _know him, anyway? A day and you're ready to start calling him 'Dad'? For all you know he's just like Quirrel, hiding Voldemort on the back of his head._

Harry really hated his cynical side. He wished that he could just give in to the hope for a better life like he did when Hagrid showed up, telling him that he was a wizard. Of course, at the time he hadn't had anything to lose, unlike now. His friends, his magic… all of that could be in danger if he wasn't careful. Look what had happened to Ron and Hermione last year, when he tried to save the Philosopher's Stone without thinking about the danger.

_I'll wait and see_, he finally decided, nodding once to himself, then again more firmly. _Like Hermione says, I need to wait and think about this before I go rushing in. So no one will get hurt this time. I will be careful._

* * *

Dean stared down at the mug of coffee in his hands, mindlessly shifting it in circles as it cooled, not taking a single sip. He could feel Bobby's gaze on him but made no move to prompt the ensuing conversation, knowing that it would be coming on its own anyway. He'd known the moment he stepped in the door.

Per tradition, he was required to take Harry through the usual tests before Bobby would let them stay in his house. Of course it wasn't as though Dean could _tell_ his son what they were doing, so he'd had to rely on Bobby's not-inconsiderable experience in subtlety. Holy water in a silver cup was the end result, which Dean was relieved to see Harry didn't spare a second glance to. There were other tests but those were the only ones he was comfortable with, at least for the moment.

Still though, he could see something in the man's eyes that told him there was more that they would need to discuss.

Finally Bobby spoke. "So," he said, pushing himself off the counter he'd been leaning on, "have you called Sam yet?"

Dean shrugged, eyes not moving from the mug as he responded. "No."

"Well you'd better do it soon, you know he'll want to meet up as soon as possible." A pause. "When was the last time you saw him?"

Again Dean shrugged. "Week ago. He had a hunt in Wisconsin."

Bobby _hmmed_ in acknowledgement, not replying.

The younger man sighed, raising his head to look at his pseudo-father. "Just say it Bobby, I know you're dying to."

A frown graced the old man's face. "I don't know what you-"

"You don't trust him." They both knew it.

The frown deepened, the confused air vanishing. A moment passed before Bobby let out a huff. "It's not that, Dean, it's-"

"What?" Dean snapped, more than a bit of anger coloring his voice as he leaned back in his chair to meet Bobby's gaze head-on. "Why can't you just spit it out? You think he's a demon? Shifter? _Witch_? We tested him and everything and he passed it all."

Bobby scowled at him. "Stop interrupting me, boy." He waited until Dean silenced before continuing. "It's not that I don't trust _him_ Dean, dammit. I don't trust _you_."

Dean reared back in shock. "_Me_?!"

"_Yes_, you! I'm scared to death of what this could do to you!"

Dean sank back in his chair, anger evaporating. "What are you talking about, Bobby? I'm fine." He spread his arms. "Hell, I'm better than I've been in a long time!"

He hadn't felt like he did right now in _years_. It was a downright high, buzzing and tingling underneath every inch of his skin every time he looked at or thought of Harry.

Bobby sighed, removing his ball cap and running a hand over his head. "Dean, I've known a lot of hunters in my life. Good people, saved a lot of lives. But _every one_ of them had been forced to watch loved ones die." He stepped over to the table and dropped into the chair opposite Dean. "I see how you look at him, Dean, and I wasn't born yesterday. You've only known him for a day and you already care a helluva lot for him. The boy's a Winchester, and your daddy and you have killed more monsters than anyone I know. What do you think'll happen when all those monsters who you've hunted hear?"

Dean's face paled a couple of shades. Then he set his jaw, fisting his jeans. "I won't let anything get to him, Bobby. I lost him once, I won't lose him again."

Bobby just shook his head. "You can't protect him from everything. If he's anything like you or your brother he'll end up in trouble without even looking for it."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Dean demanded, though there was a tinge of desperation in his voice. "Damn it Bobby, I lost twelve years with him, I _won't _lose any more." He shook his head, looking down at the table. "Maybe I shouldn't have tried to get him back…" He trailed off, grimacing and turning to look out the window.

"All parents feel that way." Dean shot him an incredulous glare and he elaborated. "I don't mean exactly—Lord knows this whole situation is a bucket of crap—but they all worry about keeping their kids safe."

Dean scoffed. "Dad didn't," he shot back, voice heavily tinged with bitterness. He'd always hated how Sam acted towards their father, hated how Sam didn't realize how much good their father did. Now, though, every instance he used to bring up to defend the man had faded from his memory.

"More than you know." Bobby leaned forward, hunching his shoulders slightly. "Your dad made a lot of mistakes Dean, I'll grant you that, and we fought over his choices more times than I can count, particularly in regards to one or both of you boys. But he loved you deeply, even if he wasn't the best at showing it. He just couldn't let go of his revenge."

The younger man snorted derisively. "He didn't take away my son 'cause revenge."

Bobby's retort was sharp and snappish. "No, he took him because it was the only thing he knew to do."

Dean looked back up at him, green eyes narrowed with both anger and betrayal.

"Dean, it was the only thing he knew what to do. You and I both know how little he trusted anything weird or unnatural, and you getting _pregnant_ and having a _baby_ probably tops even my list. But he still didn't want to hurt a kid, especially his grandson."

Dean's lips pulled back in a sneer and he let out a short, cold laugh. "_Didn't want to hurt his grandson_? Well that's the biggest load of _shit_ I've ever heard in my life! _John_ didn't give a fuck about his own sons, let alone his grandson. He took my baby and gave him away 'cause he was too much of a _bastard_ to consider that I might not make the same choice he did!" Standing and lashing out he grabbed the coffee cup and hurled it across the room, shattering it against the wall, brown liquid splattering everywhere.

Bobby reared back slightly, eyes wide. Dean's shoulders were hunched and he was panting slightly, but the angry fire was still bright in his eyes, his fists clenched tightly.

"I tried to kill myself, you know." Dean's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, a sharp contrast to the shouting a second earlier. "A few months after, I tried to kill myself. It _hurt_, every day, and it—it was too much. So I tried to end it all." He drew in a shuddering breath, closing his eyes tightly. "He could have told me. I wouldn't even have been angry, not really. But he just… just stood there. Patched me up, didn't say a word, and never mentioned it again."

Bobby swallowed, his throat suddenly painfully dry. He tried to speak but he had nothing to say, not to that. He'd never known; he remembered Dean's grief, his hopelessness, but he'd never known… never even _imagined_ how bad it had gotten.

Dean took several long, deep breaths before speaking. "I'm going to go check on Harry." His voice was as flat as expression. Then he straightened, turned, and walked out of the kitchen.

* * *

Saturday morning started as it always did; the morning sun pouring through the curtains and into the Second Year boys' dormitory, spilling a peaceful, golden glow over the children sleeping there. Then, within ten minutes, the peaceful glow would be extinguished, usually with a "_Bloody hell!"_ and a spell shot at the curtains, plunging the dorm back into darkness.

This day, however, was a bit different for Ron than usual. Typically he would be able to sleep until at least ten, after which Harry would, at Hermione's behest, drag him from bed and guide him to the Great Hall, where he'd get enough food to start off his day.

But this time there was no Harry to wake him up, and rather than sleeping longer like he expected the ginger boy found himself awake just after nine and unable to fall back asleep. It was weird but without Harry's presence it just felt strange to sleep in so late.

So, rubbing his tired eyes, Ron made his way down to the common room. He looked around for a moment before spotting his bushy-haired friend at a table in the corner, already hard at work on an essay that probably wasn't due for another six months. When he dropped into the seat across from her she actually did a double-take, obviously stunned to see him up.

"Morning 'Mione," he greeted with a wide yawn.

She blinked, still staring disbelievingly. "Ron?" She sounded rather stunned. "What… what are you doing up this early? It's Saturday!" The way she said it clearly implied she was expecting him to realize this and go right back to bed.

Instead he shrugged, leaning back in his chair and debating using one of her books as a pillow. Hermione wouldn't be amused though. "I dunno, I woke up and couldn't fall back asleep." He sat up slightly. "Is Harry back yet?"

The annoyance instantly vanished and now she looked a little amused. He wasn't sure what at. "No, not yet," she answered, closing her book. "But don't worry Ron, it won't be long I'm sure. He said his aunt had a family emergency, one of his relatives must have died or something."

Ron slumped back down in his chair, gaze lowering to the table. "Oh." Thinking about Harry's aunt brought back unpleasant memories of when he and the twins had gone to get Harry. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about the way Harry's uncle had come running after them for days, but he couldn't bring himself to ask Harry. It wasn't really his business.

He missed the way Hermione smiled fondly, or how it was instantly wiped away and her brow furrowed. When she cleared her throat, however, he did look up. "Do you want to go get some breakfast? I was planning to head down there soon anyway."

His stomach growled approvingly and Ron felt his face heat up, the blush deepening when Hermione giggled.

"Oh come on," she said, standing and beckoning to him-only pausing to grab her meter-long essay and three textbooks before heading for the door. She stopped right before the portrait, giving Ron a pointed glare until he realized what she wanted and opened the portrait door for her.

They walked in silence for nearly a minute before Ron spoke again. "So when do you think Harry will get back?"

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Oh _honestly_ Ron, you'd think you were his boyfriend or something with how you're worrying."

Once again Ron felt heat spreading across his face and he scowled at her. "Hey!"

Suddenly Hermione halted, turning to face him. But instead of speaking she shoved two of her books into his arms, leaving only one in her hands. "Look, I'm sure he's _fine_," she consoled him, once again walking. "Just because he hasn't written doesn't mean anything's wrong."

"Why do you think he didn't bring Hedwig? He goes everywhere with her!"

She frowned for a moment. "Well he probably didn't think it would take very long and didn't want to put her in a cage. I didn't get an owl last year because I knew it wouldn't be fair for me to only buy one to send letters every week or so. Hedwig is Harry's friend, not his pet."

Right as her words were, a gnawing sense of worry lurked in Ron's gut. His mum had always told him to trust his gut, and usually he interpreted it to mean he was hungry, but right now it gave him an ominous feeling.

They finally reached the Great Hall, Ron stopping for a moment to glare at the many Slytherin points unfairly given by the git Snape, Hermione making her way to the end of the Gryffindor table and Ron following. However as they walked Ron suddenly became aware of people around the hall looking at them and whispering. Everyone-except the Slytherins-was watching the duo and it sent shivers down his spine.

Hermione noticed it too, if the frown he could see over her shoulder was any indication. Indeed, the moment they'd set their stuff down at the end of the table she walked over to Seamus, sitting a few places down, and asked him just what was going on.

The Irish boy turned, grinning widely. "Oh, you haven't heard?" he asked, glancing between them. "Thought you would've noticed by now, it's been going on for _days_!"

Hermione put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"Fine, fine. They're talking about the _rumours_."

"What rumours?"

Seamus rolled his eyes, ignoring Hermione's cross look. "It's been going around the school that Harry's been arrested for being the Heir of Slytherin, and that's why he's gone. I think it's a load of rubbish, but it's funny when you think about it-"

"_WHAT!?_" Hermione shrieked, cutting him off and drawing the attention of most of the Great Hall. Seamus appeared to instantly regret telling her as he sank down into his seat.

Ron stared at Seamus in disbelief, switching to Hermione as she stomped over to him and sat down across from him-both noted the absence of their messy-haired friend.

"I cannot _believe_ this!" she hissed at him, glaring at the hash browns as if they'd personally offended her. "You'd think they would know Harry better than this! He's never done anything remotely close to this and they're acting like… like… like he's You-Know-Who or something!"

He grimaced, suddenly finding his appetite gone, the knot in his stomach growing. "Should we talk to Professor McGonagall? She can stop the rumours."

Hermione brightened for a moment at the thought before frowning. "I don't think that would do much good, it would probably make them worse."

Ron sighed, leaning his head against his hand and staring up at the overcast sky projected into the ceiling. Some part of him was really hoping Hedwig would suddenly appear with a letter from Harry, telling them everything was alright.

"I think Ginny's upset by the rumours."

"Huh?" Ron followed Hermione's gaze to his sister, sitting farther down, an absolutely horror-struck look frozen on her face. For a moment he wondered if he should go ask her if she was alright or something, but he figured she'd rather not be embarrassed by her brother.

"How about this," Hermione said suddenly, returning his attention to her. "If Harry isn't back by… Wednesday, we can go ask Professor McGonagall about it, alright? I'm sure she knows, he could never leave without her permission."

"I guess so."

She nodded assertively. "Don't worry, Professor Dumbledore would never let anything bad happen to Harry. Just you wait, he'll be back soon and it'll be all better. You'll see. I'm sure Harry is fine."


	4. Assumptions

**5/5/2016 - 1:15 AM (EST)**

* * *

Dean frowned to himself as he eyed the sheet of metal lying in front of him, the bumps and dents along its surface so deep that it was barely holding together. He ran a gloved hand along it, pressing at the lumps before using his weight to hold the sheet steady against the metal table.

_BANG!_ The hammer collided with the metal forcibly, the sound ringing out across the scrap yard. Dean swung at it again, beating what had been the trunk of the Impala back into a shape resembling the original. He gave it a few more whacks at that spot before switching to another distortion and repeating the process. The sound of metal on metal echoed across Bobby's property like some horrible cloister bell, grating and shrill.

Dean wiped a hand across his brow, setting the hammer down on the table and taking a moment to stretch, muscles tense. He yawned loudly and ran a hand through his hair. It felt odd, staying in one place like this with no case or monster to track down. It wasn't the first time he'd stayed at Bobby's but those times had ended just as soon as he could drive. His da-_John_ had disagreed with Bobby over how he and Sam were raised enough times for the man to prefer them staying in some sleazy motel room.

Sam had never been happy with the constant moving, though. He always got tired of having to switch schools every month or two, always being the new kid. His grades were stellar but he could never make friends because he'd end up getting pulled away when it was time to follow some new lead.

Was Harry angry at Dean for doing the same thing? He winced at the thought. He'd yanked Harry out of his nice, normal life and from his special gifted school to hang out in a dusty old house. While it was true that he'd been more focused on getting him back then noticing the consequences, he hadn't totally considered how he'd be messing up Harry's life. Though he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Dean sighed to himself. He had no idea what he was doing. He had no clue how to be a parent. Ellen had been offering him advice and he'd been using it as a crutch, to his own consternation. It had actually been her advice that he work on his car and take a break from hovering over Harry. They'd been getting along really well the past two days, though there was still some awkwardness and tension, and Dean didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that fragile bond.

Hopefully Sam would be back soon. He was on a hunt a few states away but would be heading to meet them as soon as it finished. Harry would probably like Sam; they could bond over their special schools.

The sound of crunching gravel drew him from his thoughts and he looked up, blinking in surprise at the sight of Harry making his way across the yard towards him.

"Hey," he greeted, a grin growing on his face as he brushed off his hands on his pants. "What's up? Is everything alright?"

Harry shrugged, glancing over at the Impala, brow furrowing for a moment. "Uh, nothing really," he admitted, looking back at Dean. "I just… wanted to take a walk."

Dean nodded. "Yea, it's kinda crowded in there. I keep telling Bobby to toss out some of his crap but he hoards stuff like a pack-rat."

Harry cracked a small smile at that, which Dean considered a victory. "My friend Hermione would have a fit. She hates messes, especially when people aren't taking care of books. She loves books."

Dean caught the casual reference to his friend, something Harry hadn't yet talked about. "Hermione, huh? Is she a classmate or something?"

Harry nodded. "Yea, she's in the same year as me and my other friend Ron. She's really smart, she's the best in our year."

"What about Ron?"

Harry had shifted closer, a notable improvement from the hesitation he'd been displaying just a few days ago. "I met him on the train to school. He's got a bunch of older brothers who go to Hogwarts too, and a younger sister. He and Hermione used to hate each other but after… after he hurt her feelings and apologized they made up. His mum let me come stay with them during the summer. She's nice too."

Harry's smile had turned a tad wistful and he glanced away for a moment, clearing his throat. It was rather obvious that he missed his friends, and Dean once again felt guilty for uprooting Harry's entire life so abruptly. However, he was glad that Harry had good friends.

"They sound great," he said. "And they're lucky to have you as their friend."

At this Harry appeared embarrassed, a faint flush spreading over his cheeks. He crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders, looking down at his feet uncomfortably.

Suddenly it hit Dean that it was the middle of winter and that Harry was only wearing a T-shirt. "Jeez, kid, why aren't you wearing a jacket? It's like thirty degrees out here!"

Acting on long-unused muscle memory, from when Sam was always forgetting his coat as a teenager, Dean slid his own jacket off and reached out to wrap it around Harry's shoulders. Harry, in part, was clearly surprised, stuttering out a protest once he realized what Dean had done, but Dean just brushed him off.

"Keep it, I'm good," he cut the kid off, offering him a reassuring smile. "I'm all muscle anyway, immune to the cold."

The blush was back, pink spreading across the pale skin, and Harry ducked his head. "Thanks," he murmured softly.

"Anytime." Seeing how embarrassed the kid was, he mercifully rescued him. "This is my usual car by the way, not that beat-up old van we rode in here. Bobby let me borrow that, though he should've hauled it off for scrap years ago."

Harry followed his gesture towards the Impala, eyeing it curiously.

Dean continued. "I got in a wreck a little while back and haven't gotten around to fixing her ' till now. You should've seen her before, though; completely totalled. But she's a strong girl," he rapped on the side, "it takes more than that to break her."

Harry trailed after him, leaning over to look in through the smashed window. The insides were bare, the seats having been removed by Bobby, making it look more like a death trap than a car. With the flooring stripped away one could see the initials carved into it by a young Sam and Dean.

"I've had this car since I turned eighteen. My dad gave her to me then." He ignored the little flame of betrayal coiled in his chest at the mention of his father.

Dean felt like someone had punched a hole through him and now it was just hanging open. It had been over a month since his father looked him in the eyes and told him that he had done the most despicable thing Dean could ever imagine, but the wound remained as fresh as the day it was made. The worst part was that all he could think about was how John could've fixed it, could've made it better sooner, could have done a _single damn thing_ to help his grieving son.

Harry turned to look at him, question in his eyes, and Dean tore himself from his thoughts.

"You know," he joked, directing the conversation away from the mention of his father, smirking as he said it, "when I'm all old and wrinkly like Bobby in there she'll be yours, so make sure to take care of her."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise and he looked over at the Impala, mouth opening but nothing coming out. He looked back at Dean with a kind of surprise in his eyes, and something else, and it gave Dean a proud feeling knowing that he put it there.

"C'mon kid," he said, nudging Harry's shoulder, "let's go inside where it is nice and warm. I'll show you where Bobby keeps his treats."

* * *

The Gryffindor Quidditch stands were hard and uncomfortable underneath Ron and Hermione's legs, the air cold enough to see their breath. All the snow had melted away, fortunately, but that hadn't changed the fact that it was still mid-winter, and Scotland. Luckily Hermione was still an expert in her little bluebell flames, as well as the cushioning charm Professor Flitwick had taught the Second-Years just last week.

To be fair, neither twelve-year-old exactly _wanted_ to be sitting out at the Quidditch pitch instead of inside the cozy Gryffindor common room or within the library stacks. However, the Quidditch pitch had become the best option. In the past few days the rumours of Harry's supposed 'arrest' for being the Heir of Slytherin had spread like wildfire, even many Gryffindors buying into it. They ended up being kicked out of the library after Ron, in an attempt to defend his absent friend, got into a shouting match with Hannah Abbott right where Madam Pince could see him. Ejection was swift and harsh. The common room wasn't much better; for all their supposed loyalty they weren't completely sure of Harry's innocence either and it took both Hermione and Percy to prevent a brawl between the other Weasleys and members like Cormac McLaggen.

So, the Quidditch pitch.

In Hermione's opinion the worst part of the gossip was that Harry wasn't even there to defend himself or prove them wrong. So she merely sat there, staring down at her copy of _The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 3_ blankly as her mind raced. The Polyjuice potion would be complete the day before break ended, leaving them only a short window of time to trick Malfoy into ousting himself as the Heir. Her mind was whirring with different methods of wheedling the truth out of him, knowing that there needed to be real proof if they were to arrest him.

"But it's taking so _long_, Hermione!" Ron replied when she voiced this to him. His temper had been spiking several times each day and it had no outlet. "Malfoy could petrify the whole school before we get him!"

"I rather doubt that." She huffed, setting her own book aside. "I made a list and there actually have only been four petrifications this entire year. Mrs. Norris-who I don't think counts-, Colin, Justin, and Nearly-Headless-Nick, who happened at the same time as Justin. That's only three attacks Ron. It's a short list. And besides, what would the use be of doing it during break? There's barely anyone here."

"Last time it was opened it was more, almost a dozen in just a month. No one could figure out why. But then in the spring someone actually _died_ and they were about to close the school, except the attacks stopped suddenly. But all the books that say what happened are gone from the library, and Madam Pince wouldn't tell me who took them." She huffed to herself loudly.

Ron sank back into the seat, scowl deepening. "It was probably Malfoy's dad or granddad," he commented, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at nothing in particular. "Dad says his grandfather was worse than both of them combined. He would've _loved_ to off a bunch of muggleborns. Then he told his son, who told Malfoy, who decided to try and open it himself."

Hermione frowned. "If it happened all those years ago how did Dumbledore never find it? I'm sure there must've been clues."

"Dunno," Ron answered with a shrug. "He's a Gryffindor, can't only Slytherins find it or something?"

"But he's the most powerful wizard alive, and the smartest. If anyone could find it it's him."

Another shrug was her response. "Well he _is _like a hundred and fifty years old, Hermione."

Hermione continued to frown. "But then-" She stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening. "Oh!" She gasped, "Ron, maybe he was a teacher then, too! According to _Greatest Wizards of the Twentieth Century_ Professor Dumbledore has been working here for over sixty years, so wouldn't he have been a teacher then too? Perhaps he would know something that could help Harry!"

But Ron shook his head. "Remember last year? He's super busy; Mum told me that he's got _three_ jobs. If he knew he would've told the Ministry so they could find the real Heir, right?"

"Oh." She visibly deflated for a moment before perking back up. "But he couldn't have been the only one, right? Some of the others might've been here then too!" Her hair seemed to swell with her excitement and she looked ready to sprint up to the castle herself. "Maybe Professor Flitwick? He was a dueling champion though, so maybe not… Madam Hooch has been here a long time too, maybe her? Or Professor McGonagall, she's Deputy Headmistress-"

"Like she'd tell us anything," Ron cut her off derisively.

Hermione's jaw dropped, scandalized, at the slight against her favorite teacher. "_Ron!_ Professor McGonagall is brilliant, and helpful, and always fair and-"

"Hagrid!"

"I-... what?"

Ron gestured towards the Forbidden Forest and Hermione followed his gaze. "Hagrid!"

Indeed, Hagrid was emerging from the shadowy thicket, a large shape slung over his shoulder and Fang following behind him. He appeared to look around cautiously for a moment before climbing up into his shack, closing the door behind the dog.

"...oh." Hermione blinked. "Wait, how old is Hagrid?"

Ron shrugged and turned back to her. "Dunno. He's been here since before Bill and Charlie were here. Actually Dad once said that he remembers Hagrid being here when he was student too. I dunno though, it's hard to tell."

Hermione eyed the cabin for a moment before nodding slowly, then once more. "Hagrid might know something," she realized, a glint appearing in her eyes. "You're right Ron, Hagrid will help us. I'm sure he wants to clear Harry's name."

Ron beamed at the praise, jumping right to his feet. "Definitely! Hagrid's great. He'll tell us what happened, I know it. Hagrid never keeps secrets."

* * *

The tinny sound of artificial gunshots echoed around Bobby's living room, emanating from the ancient television standing in the corner with books stacked all around it. Little black-and-white cowboys raced across the desert on horses, waving their big hats in the air and shouting like maniacs.

Harry never really understood the appeal of cowboy movies. Even when he was a kid. Dudley had gone through a three-month phase where he'd been obsessed with them, wearing the hat and spouting off catchphrases in a bad accent while he shot Harry with foam pellets, until Vernon put a stop to it with a lecture about the "filthy Americans defying their King and country".

Though, to be fair, Harry wasn't paying much attention anyway. Even before he'd found out he was a wizard movies never appealed to him, on the rare occasions the Dursleys let him sit on the floor beside the couch while they watched the telly. And now it just felt so much less impressive in comparison to the things he'd seen with his own eyes.

He found his gaze wandering to Dean every few minutes, sitting beside him on the couch with his eyes glued to the telly. He would notice Harry's looks occasionally but didn't say anything; he just smiled.

It was just so _odd_ simply hanging out with the man like this. Never once had Harry done something so casual with the Dursleys, because never would they have _wanted_ to be around him-and he knew that he should stop comparing Dean to them but he couldn't help it. He'd done the same to Ron and Hermione at first, expecting them to tease him or be annoyed whenever he offered an opinion, but that didn't happen at all. Same with the rest of the Weasleys over the summer; they were as different from the Dursleys as night and day yet he just couldn't be rid of them, lurking in the back of his mind like a disease. He didn't know if he'd ever be rid of them.

Dean was so _nice_. And not nice like Mrs. Weasley, constantly feeding him and making sure he was doing well-though there was nothing wrong with that-but nice in a way that Harry could only describe as being the way he'd always pictured a _dad_ would act. Funny, nice, considerate, even showing Harry how his car worked! And that had been one of the most enjoyable things Harry had ever done.

However, Harry also felt more than a bit guilty about this. Knowing that he was still keeping such a big secret about Dean, even if he told him a little bit about Ron and Hermione. The longer he kept it the more he wished he didn't have to; the man had been so accepting about everything else, why wouldn't he be about this?

One of the movie cowboys riding on a horse suddenly pulled out his gun and began shooting wildly. Native Americans scattered wildly, several dropping under the fire.

Oh. _Right_. It might not be such a good idea unless he knew he could do damage control. Hermione once mentioned that the Ministry had a way of keeping the sort of parents who feared or hated magic from doing anything, and Harry couldn't. So it would probably better if he just waited for Dumbledore to come find him. Even if treating Dean like the Dursleys left a foul taste in his mouth.

Dean nudged his shoulder, dissipating his gloomy thoughts as he turned to look at him.

"Like the movie? I've got all the Clint Eastwood movies but this is my favorite. Sam hates them though." He rolled his eyes.

Harry nodded in response to the earlier question. "Yea, it's, uh, cool."

Apparently appeased, Dean settled back into the couch, stretching his arms out along the back of it. One came to rest behind Harry head, firmness at odds with the almost overly-soft couch, but Harry didn't mind.

The movie continued on, and after a little while longer Harry found his eyelids getting heavier. He attempted to remain focused but there was something mesmerizing about scratchy voices and Western drawl. It got harder and harder to focus, especially with the softness of the couch letting him sink right in.

He didn't remember moving, but somewhere along the line the firm arm behind his head had shifted into a shoulder, and his own was pressing up against something just as firm and warm. There was also a weight on his opposite shoulder but his awareness had grown so fuzzy it barely registered.

A bit of alertness returned a little while later, when he actually _did_ feel himself being moved, but he was still mostly asleep. The weight on his shoulder moved and he felt it slide behind his back, something else underneath his knees. Then he was being lifted and that was when he tried to wake up for real.

His eyes blinked open but he couldn't see clearly. A voice whispered "_It's okay, go back to sleep."_ Something about it made him relax and within seconds he had slipped back into unconsciousness.

He didn't feel, nor remember, being placed on a cool mattress, blankets pulled up to his chin, or a hand in his hair with that same voice whispering "_Goodnight."_ But he would remember a better night's sleep than had come in a long time.

* * *

One o'clock in the morning found Dean, not asleep in his bed resting after a very enjoyable day spending time with the son he'd missed out on over a decade with, but patching up his brother in the kitchen while trying to both not fall asleep halfway through stitches or be too loud and wake Harry up.

Sam obligingly remained perfectly still, albeit a few winces whenever Dean pulled the thread taut. The other hand was clenching a bottle of Scotch from Bobby's "hidden" stash, downing a mouthful whenever the pain got too bad. Aside from the deep cut on his arm he also had a dislocated shoulder and black eye, not to mention the smaller cuts decorating his face. All in all: bad, but nowhere near as bad as they sometimes had to deal with.

"-then he cut my arm," Sam continued in his explanation for what, exactly, had caused him to arrive in such a state. "Lenore wouldn't drink the blood though. She did the whole 'vamp-teeth' thing but didn't give in to the bloodlust. Gordon didn't expect that and it gave me room to deck him and knock him out. Then I tied him up and let Lenore get away."

Dean gave the string a hard _yank_ and Sam hissed in pain, looking up to find his brother staring at him incredulously. "You _let her get away_?"

Sam frowned. "Well… yea. I mean she wasn't hurting anyone and Gordon had already killed the others-"

"She's a _vampire_, Sam! They hurt people! It is literally the only thing they do! Drain, kill, make more like the disease they are. You don't let one go, no matter how pretty she is!" He scowled deeply and tied off the stitch, snipping the loose extra. "There. Let this remind you to not do stupid shit like that again. I thought you got over this naivety years ago."

Sam scowled right back, yanking his arm away and pressing a clean cloth against the cut to stop the bleeding. "She wasn't a monster, Dean! She was a… a vegetarian vampire!"

All he got was a flat look from Dean.

He huffed. "Dean, she wasn't _always_ a monster. It's not like one of those things born like that. Vampires used to be human; can't they choose to still act like one?"

Dean stared at him as if he had two heads. "_No!_" He hissed, before suddenly turning to glance back at the stairs behind him. He turned back and cleared his throat. "No," he repeated, quieter. "Sam, their bloodlust is just too strong to ignore. Sure they _can_ eat crap like cow blood but they need human blood to live. They're all the same."

Sam opened his mouth to retort but Dean cut him off as he finished tying off the wrap around Sam's hand, which was bruised from his fight with the psychotic hunter.

"All done." He gave it a light smack, smirking at Sam. "Damn Sammy, you look like you got in a bar fight."

Sam sighed, deciding against responding, knowing that it was a lost cause.

"If Harry asks, tell him you got beat up by a crazy guy."

All thoughts of Lenore and Gordon were banished from Sam's mind. He instantly sat up straighter, eyes widening at the casual mention of his nephew. "Harry?" He prodded.

Dean's lips pulled into a small grin, eyes lighting up in a way Sam rarely saw. His brother had never been the sort to smile a lot; smirk, sure, or do a flirty grin, but rarely smile. "You'll like him Sam. Kinda reminds me of you, minus the bitch-face." He glanced back towards the stairs again. "He's smart though; even goes to one of those special schools for smart kids."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Oh? Which one? A bunch of my classmates at Stanford were from England."

Dean waved a hand vaguely. "Can't remember the name, it was something weird." The grin was back. "He's funny though, and really just a great kid."

"Wow Dean, listen to you gushing like a soccer mom."

The grin turned annoyed, but even still it couldn't vanish the underlying fondness. "Shut up, bitch."

"Jerk. So where's he now?"

Dean gave Sam a "_Duh."_ look. "Dude, it's like one in the morning. He's asleep." He rolled his eyes and pushed himself out of the chair, stretching. "Which I would like to go back to doing, if you don't mind."

Something his brother had said suddenly registered. "Wait, what do you mean 'I got beat up by a crazy guy'?"

"Oh." Dean paused halfway to the door. "I told Harry we work for the government, and that's why we travel a lot. It was the best excuse I could come up with. Besides it's kinda true; we travel a lot and capture 'bad guys'." He finished with air quotes.

Sam was no longer smiling. "You lied to him, Dean? You didn't tell him about us being hunters?"

"Uh, _no_, I didn't. He's just a kid, Sam; he doesn't need to know about all that. And even if I told him, then what? Either he thinks we're wackos and tries to run away or for some reason he believes us and spends every day hiding from monsters! Take your pick."

"_I_ was fine with it Dean, and I was around his age."

Dean dismissed him with a wave. "Yea but you were raised around it. Besides you would've believed me if I told you the moon was made from cheese."

"I would not!" Sam took a deep breath and sighed. "Dean, lying to him like that is just what Dad did to me, and I hated him for it. If he'd told me the truth-sure, I'd have been freaked, but I would've been glad of it."

Dean scoffed.

"Besides, how do you know Harry won't react worse if he finds out you lied? He barely knows you Dean, and if he doesn't trust you, there is a real possibility he will start to hate you and then run away just like I did, except this time you won't be able to get him back."

At those words Dean's mouth shut and his face paled slightly. He swallowed once and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out and he closed it, looking away with a conflicted expression on his face.

Sighing, knowing there was nothing left to say, Sam stood from the table, grabbing the ice pack Dean had put together, and walked out of the kitchen, leaving his brother there staring out the window into the darkness.

* * *

**A/N: I wasn't originally planning on updating until I finished school (May 24th is my last day and the 28th is my graduation-expect another chapter then) but I just saw the most recent episode of Supernatural and it was far too good to not have some sort of note to it.**

**I don't know how my updating schedule will work once summer begins, but it SHOULD pick up. Much of the lag this time has been because of school. I have the entirety of this story planned out but much of my recent trouble has been that many of these early chapters are primarily about setting things up and I keep going back to add or delete scenes. This one is a bit safer since it is more of a filler, and builds some of the relationship.**

**If you are interested, follow me at my Tumblr account under the same name, where I will be posting notices about my stories and other fun stuff.**


	5. Questioning

**A/N: ** **Woo, long chapter! I figured I owed it since I got this out later than intended, even though it isn't the most interesting chapter. FYI I suffered a delay because the Harry-meeting-Sam scene just WOULD NOT work. So I decided to just leave it open-ended. Hope it isn't too disappointing.**

**My next update will HOPEFULLY (no promises) be my birthday. Yay! Leave me some good lengthy reviews and I will definitely try! Because the next chapter is a BIG one.**

* * *

"I want to go visit Mom's grave."

As soon as the words came out of his mouth Sam saw his brother stiffen at the stove. (And since when could Dean cook?)

Dean turned to look at him, eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?" he asked.

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal chain, laying it on the table, the dog tags clinking together on the wood. He looked up at his brother, not saying a word.

Dean scowled and turned back to the stove, aggressively scraping the fork across the bottom of the pan in the way he knew Sam hated. "What's the point?" he snapped, "Her body's not there any more than Da-_John_'s is. Why should I drive all the way out there for a hunk of granite put up by an uncle we've never even met?"

"Dean, that's not the point. It's not about the body, it's about her memory, and after Dad-"

"After Dad _what_?" Dean snapped, shooting an icy glare over his shoulder.

Sam put up his hands in silent surrender. "I just… I just feel like it'd be the right thing to do."

His brother said nothing, radiating displeasure.

"And, you know, it might be a good idea to go for Harry's sake. You know, help him get more comfortable since he doesn't really know us. Maybe he'd like to learn more about our side of the family, huh?"

Even from behind him Sam could feel his brother's angry scowl, but clearly he had nothing to say to that because no retort came after. He'd known coming in that his brother would be against the idea but hopefully-

A loud creak cut off his train of thought and Sam turned in his chair just as Dean did the same, turning to look at the doorway. Just as they did the sliding doors opened and in stepped a kid who could only be Dean's spawn.

Harry really did look _incredibly_ like Dean. From the big green eyes, a little cloudy with sleep, to the freckles splashed across a slim nose and the light surly I-just-woke-up expression that he'd seen on his brother's face a thousand times over. He was halfway into the room, one hand rubbing his eyes, when he suddenly took notice of Sam and froze for a long moment like a deer in the headlights.

"Hi," the kid greeted slowly, gaze flicking from Dean to Sam uncertainly. The accent was easy to hear in his voice.

Deciding to take the initiative since Dean made no move to introduce them, Sam pushed himself to his feet, suddenly towering over Harry. He offered the boy a small smile as he stuck out a hand. "Hi Harry," he said. "I'm Sam Winchester. I'm, uh, your uncle."

Harry stared up at him for a moment, Sam's hand awkwardly hanging between them. Then suddenly a brilliant smile split the boy's face as he eagerly took the hand, shaking it eagerly. "Hi!" he breathed, eyes bright. He seemed almost in awe, which made Sam's grin widen.

Of course that was when Dean chose to butt in.

"I made breakfast," the oldest member declared, placing a set of plates down on the table with a loud clink, drawing their attention. Sam's eyebrows shot up at the sight of the food piled onto Bobby's ancient cracked plates. "When we finish, pack your bag. We're taking a trip."

From across the table Dean's eyes fixed on Sam with a look of annoyed acceptance, and Sam smiled in return.

_Bingo_.

* * *

It didn't take Harry very long to pack up for their departure. It wasn't like he had a lot anyway; wearing the same outfits more than once was a habit he'd had since he was little and only had two makeshift outfits for the entire week. Dean luckily hadn't noticed, because Harry didn't want to have to explain why his clothes all looked so similar.

He had finished fixing up the car very quickly with Sam helping him along. Harry didn't have the faintest clue exactly what they did, but he could glean enough to understand that Dean was a wiz with mechanics and such. Either way they'd finally gotten it all fixed up and were ready to head out within the hour.

According to Sam they were heading to Kansas, one of the other states, where Dean and Sam had lived when they were little, in order to visit their mother's grave. Since their dad had just died Sam wanted to go visit. Dean had seemed a little moody but Harry figured it made sense. And, morbid as it may seem to anyone else, he was actually quite excited to be going; meeting Sam had only made him more eager and curious to learn more about his new family.

He was just stuffing the jumper he got from Mrs. Weasley his first year at Hogwarts into the suitcase when he heard the sound of an eerily familiar pop behind him. He stiffened, eyes widening slightly, and turned slowly.

Standing on the bed, bulging eyes gleaming and floppy ears uplifted, stood Dobby. Upon realizing that Harry was staring at him Dobby gave him a teary grin and clasped his hands together. "Harry Potter has listened to Dobby!" the elf breathed joyfully, looking almost like he was about to cry. "Harry Potter has left Hogwarts!"

Harry stared for a long moment, not entirely sure he wasn't hallucinating. "Dobby?"

The elf continued to beam, looking happier than Harry had ever seen him.

The shock Harry felt slowly began to bleed away, anger rising in its place as he remembered all the things the creature had done in its attempt to keep him away from Hogwarts.

Dobby seemed to sense the shift because his ears drooped slightly, guilt overtaking the joy on his face. "Harry Potter is right to be angry at Dobby. Dobby was sure to punish himself after Harry Potter got hurt." He rolled the hem of his pillowcase nervously, his bandaged hands clearly visible. "But Dobby had to keep Harry Potter safe from danger! Hoggy-warts isn't safe and Harry Potter would be in terrible danger from bad things!"

Harry's frown faded slightly as he recalled what Dobby had said to him before, in the Hospital Wing. "Have there been any more attacks, Dobby? Has anyone else been petrified?"

Dobby pulled at his ears and whined but shook his head. "No Harry Potter sir, there has been no more after the ghosty and Hufflypuff boy."

Justin and Nearly-Headless-Nick then. That was good-or well, not good for Justin or Nick, but good that no one else had been the victim. "Dobby, you need to tell me who's behind this! Maybe we can stop anyone else from being petrified. Or worse."

Dobby let out a keening whine, shaking his head violently from side to side. Suddenly he leapt off the bed, racing to the desk in the corner and pulling a massive book off of it, taking it in both hands and slamming it repeatedly into his head. "No! Bad Dobby, bad! No speaking Master's secrets!"

Harry winced at each loud yelp, hurrying to yank the book from Dobby's spindly fingers and slamming it back on the desk. "Ssshhh!" he hushed the elf, grabbing its pillowcase and clapping a hand over its mouth. He waited until he was sure Dobby was calm before letting go and stepping over to the door. He cracked it open and listened for a moment to make sure no one was coming to see what the noise was. Dean's voice could still be heard loud and clear from downstairs, so Harry breathed a sigh of relief and closed the door once more. He turned back to the elf, scowling. "You need to stay quiet, Dobby, alright? No more hurting yourself."

Dobby nodded slowly, rolling the base of his dirty pillowcase in his hands and looking thoroughly apologetic.

"Now Dobby, how did you know where I was?" He hadn't realized it until now, but somehow Dobby seemed able to track him, both here and at the Dursleys, even with his mother's protection.

Dobby perked up slightly. "Dobby knew that Harry Potter had left Hogwarts, so Dobby followed Harry Potter here." Then he wilted, looking upset. "Did Dobby make a mistake?"

Harry shook his head quickly. "No, no Dobby, this is good; really good. So could you find me again if you needed to?"

Dobby nodded slowly.

"Okay then, Dobby, I need you to do something for me; can you do it?"

The excited expression was back, eager and adoring, and it made Harry feel just a tiny bit guilty.

"Dobby, you know Professor Dumbledore, right?" A nod. "Dobby I need you to go to Professor Dumbledore the _moment_ you get back to England, alright? I need you to go to him and tell him where I am, alright? And that I need his help. Can you do that?"

Dobby nodded eagerly, re-clasping his hands. "Yes, Dobby can do this for Harry Potter. Tell Professor that Harry Potter needs his help and where to find him."

"Yes," confirmed Harry, spirits lifting. "And that I need his help so I can get back to Hogwarts."

The moment the words left his mouth he wished that he could yank them back. Dobby, so excited, now was frowning, and Harry felt his stomach clenching.

"Tell Professor that Harry Potter needs his help to go back to school?"

Harry swallowed. "Uh… yes, Dobby."

"And if Harry Potter can't get Professor's help he can't go back?"

Harry grimaced but nodded.

Dobby drew himself up, much like he had when Harry had refused during the summer, and Harry knew even before the little elf spoke what would happen next. "Dobby is sorry Harry Potter," he said, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped in the wind. "But Dobby cannot do it; Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts!"

"Dobby wait-" Harry cried, lunging for him, but it was too late; Dobby popped away instantly, leaving Harry to sprawl on the floor, arms reaching for nothing.

"Darn it Dobby!"

* * *

The gravestone wasn't like Harry had imagined. He wasn't sure what exactly he had been imagining, but this wasn't quite it. A slab of rose-colored granite, two or so feet high, smooth and curved with an artful border carved around the engraved words there. Dark streaks came from each letter-rain damage, Harry recognized-revealing the age of the stone.

_Mary Winchester. 1954-1983. In loving memory._

It was so… impersonal. So bland. No pictures or flowers or even an inscription about her being missed, like Harry knew was on other people's headstones sometimes. Just a name, a date, and a run-of-the-mill line that was probably on a million other rocks.

Harry looked over at Sam, down on one knee beside him, knife still in hand. The little raised patch of grass that hid the dog tags lay a few inches from the stone, unnoticeable to anyone who didn't know what it meant.

Harry turned his head farther to look over at Dean, standing a ways away and not looking towards them. His shoulders were hunched slightly with his hands in his pockets, shuffling awkwardly but not making a single motion towards them.

Harry supposed that he could kind of understand it; this was Dean's mother's-Harry's grandmother's-grave, and he might not want to think about the fact that both his parents were dead now. He hadn't dared ask about their father, and if he had a grave, because he could tell that this wasn't a topic that either wanted to discuss.

Suddenly it hit Harry, the gravity of it. Death. Dean and Sam's parents, dead, and they were mourning them. Harry had never seen that sort of sadness; Quirrel had died, yes, but he hadn't thought about that, he'd only thought of the Dark Lord using the man to kill him. But Quirrel had been killed for his loyalty, and it was Harry who did it.

James and Lily were dead too. He'd known that since he came to the Dursleys all those years ago, known that they were dead even if the circumstances were a lie. But he hadn't really felt anything for it; they always had been dead, as far as he could remember, and he had nothing to compare it to. But they were his parents just as much as Dean, if not more in their own way, and they'd died protecting him. However, instead of mourning them, the entire magical world celebrated their deaths and the death of Voldemort as well.

Did they have graves too? Or were they destroyed by Voldemort like Quirrel had been? Did they have bodies, or was the only remnant of them how they saved him from Voldemort?

What was Mary like when she was alive? Would she have liked him, or would she have been angry that her son had a baby without being married? Did she look like Dean or more like Sam? There was no way to know.

So many questions which Harry didn't know the answer to. Petunia had never talked about her parents or about Harry's, so for him 'dead' had never really meant anything. He'd never known anyone who had died, he only knew them as being dead. What was it like, being dead? Did you go somewhere better, or worse, or just nowhere, ceasing to exist?

Harry forced himself to look away, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat to stave off the dryness. It didn't matter, not really. But now all he could think about was how easy it was to lose the people you cared about no matter how hard you tried. Life wasn't fair.

A large hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up, relaxing slightly when he saw that it was just Sam. The man smiled at him gently. "Ready to go?" Harry nodded and let the man lead him back towards the car. Dean was standing off to the side, staring at an old tree, but when he saw them heading back he hurried over. Harry let Sam break off to talk to him, letting his feet guide him towards the car. He got into the back and relaxed, the strange tension of the graveyard leaving his bones.

He didn't like graveyards very much, he decided. Hopefully he wouldn't have to go to another one for a long time.

* * *

Dumbledore took his seat in behind his desk, offering a smile and nod to Minerva as she took hers. The rest of the teachers were already present, save Sibyll who refused to leave her towers before noon, claiming it 'clouded the calm awakening of her Inner Eye'. Minerva had snorted when he'd told her this. Lockhart was missing as well, but Dumbledore suspected his Headmistress had 'forgotten' to invite him.

"Good morning everyone," he greeted them cheerfully, getting a reply from all but Severus. "I know things have been stressful with the recent attacks, so thank you for all coming. Firstly, how have your students been faring in these trying times?"

Pomona started first. "My 'Puffs have been very worked up," she confessed, shaking her head and sending a bit of dirt flying out of her wild curls. "As you know most of my House is composed of children with muggle family, and what with the Heir lurking about…" She shuddered.

"How far along are the Mandrakes?" Minerva chimed in. "Is there any way they will be ready before everyone returns?"

The Herbology professor shook her head with a sigh. "No, sadly, and they don't react well to spells that would speed their growth along. I owled one of my colleagues in France but it's the off season for growing those sorts of plants by their schedule; we only do it here because of the enchanted greenhouses and the need to teach Second-Years long-term plant care." She turned to the Potions Master. "Severus, do you know anyone who might have a supply of Restorative Draughts?"

Severus sneered at being addressed, but everyone was too used to it to bother. "None of the others keep it in supply," he drawled finally. "It has little use except as a cure to a few lesser-known transfigurations, and, like the Mandrakes themselves, Stasis Charms or other spells of the like have no effect." He paused for a moment. "There is also the flaw that it is illegal to breed Mandrakes without Ministry approval." He scowled at the word Ministry.

Dumbledore frowned, tapping the tips of his fingers together. "That is unfortunate. If it appears we are unable to cure this then it will cause more distress among the children." He turned to Flitwick. "Filius, I apologize for us getting off track, how have your Ravenclaws been doing?"

The tiny man cleared his throat before replying in his squeaky voice. "As well as can be expected, Albus. I have found several attempting to find their own answers to the attacks, but none have gotten any farther than us."

Everyone ignored Snape's derisive "_Obviously_."

Filius hesitated for a moment before continuing. "There has also been a rather… troubling attempt by one of the older students to discover if Harry Potter is the Heir by acquiring one of his quills from a Gryffindor and attempting to use it in a spell. I punished her and confiscated the quill of course, but this is not the first attempt I have seen against Potter."

"I as well," Minerva added. "While the boy's friends have stayed close, many others were treating him badly. I have found a few and appropriately punished them but it is getting worse, especially after the incident in the Duelling Club. I am almost relieved he isn't here at the moment."

Dumbledore did not miss the way Pomona's mouth tightened slightly, or how Aurora and Septima exchanged a troubled look at the mention of Harry's display of Parseltongue.

Severus sighed and rolled his eyes, drawing their attention. "There has been no mention of the Heir within my house." He sneered at the others, silently condemning the other three Houses. "No one has made any claim of being the Heir, no matter how some may wish to. They know the risks of doing so should the true Heir appear." His dark eyes flicked to Dumbledore, sending a silent message. Both men knew of the most recent Heir, though his identity had never been public, and what it could mean if it was indeed his actions causing this.

Flitwick spoke up again, squeaky voice drawing their attention. "Albus, has the Ministry not issued a statement regarding these events? I find it strange that the boys' parents haven't yet tried to come see them."

"The _Ministry_," Minerva answered before the Headmaster could, "is convinced that these attacks are nothing to be worried about, that they are just some prank." Her lips pinched together so tightly they were nearly invisible. "Fudge doesn't wish to cause a panic and have students be transferred to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak but was once again cut off, this time by Vector. "But that's absurd!" She gasped. "How could he put children's lives at risk like that?"

"Is it really any surprise?" Minerva scoffed, "The Minister is a fool. How that odious little man managed to keep his post for so long is beyond me-"

"_In any case_," Dumbledore spoke up, silencing them, "our main priority is keeping the children safe. Until we discern who the Heir is or how they are doing this, we are blind." The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, staring at the silver machines on his desk for a long moment. "Keep your eyes and ears open," he said, looking up and taking the time to meet every person's eyes. "It is troublesome times, now that the students are in peril, and now more than ever we need to stay watchful. Last year we failed to protect the students, a mistake we _cannot_ make again."

The others recognized the dismissal and stood, all but Severus and Minerva leaving. Only when the door was closed did the Transfiguration professor speak. "I don't like it, Albus. This isn't something any ordinary student could do, Parselmouth or not." She paused, frowning. "How is it that such an ability has manifested, anyway? Yes the Potters are an old pureblood family but no more than the Malfoys or the Longbottoms, neither of whom have shown this… talent."

Severus snorted derisively. "James Potter was a Gryffindor through and through Minerva," he snapped, spitting the name. "Even if he possessed the gift he would have never known, as he was more likely to kill a snake than attempt to speak to it."

"Lily then?" She saw the way he tensed. "Is it possible that somehow it was from her?"

This time Dumbledore replied. "No Minerva, I'm afraid not. I checked myself as soon as it happened, but there was no evidence of either Lily or James ever being able to speak to snakes. While certain abilities have appeared in muggleborns, regardless of family lines, the ability to speak Parseltongue is confined strictly to the direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin. The last living descendant is Voldemort. I would assume Harry got the power after Voldemort failed to kill him."

She winced at the name. "Is it possible that he has returned and is the one behind this?" She looked at the Slytherin head.

Severus pulled his sleeve farther down his forearm, shooting a withering glare at her. "The Dark Lord has not regained physical form," he replied. "The moment he did I would know." He fixed his piercing black eyes on Dumbledore. "Could this be possession once more? I had assumed you would have taken precautions after Quirrel. The fact that the vile little man was hiding the Dark Lord without our knowledge is a rather obvious indication that the Hogwarts wards have been broken."

"I'm afraid it is not so simple," the old man confessed. "The wards have been added to by every Headmaster since the first four, but still Voldemort was able to travel through them while hiding himself inside another. This is Dark Magic like I have never seen before. I had believed Voldemort would never stoop to requiring the assistance of another, but it seems I was wrong. And unless I know exactly what magic he has used, I cannot shield from it."

Minerva's eyes widened. "Then what keeps him from attacking Potter? If You-Know-Who can really pass through the wards-"

"Fear not," he cut her off with a raised hand. "As I told you once before Minerva, Mr. Potter is protected by his mother's sacrifice. The magic is ancient and complex, but powerful. It is furthered by Harry living with Petunia; her shared blood keeps the spell alive, even if Lily herself is no longer with us. And even then we are far from defenseless."

"In that case the brat should be brought back to Hogwarts," Severus snapped, changing the topic quite firmly from Lily Evans-Potter. "The Dark Lord will seek to destroy him as he did before and will be banished once more."

Dumbledore's lips thinned in disapproval. "I will not willingly place Harry in danger Severus," he answered, twinkle gone from his eyes. "With the monster on the loose and the unfortunate reveal of his Parseltongue, it might be wise for Harry to stay with his aunt for a short while. I made the mistake of baiting Voldemort once before and Harry nearly died because of it, not to mention Nicholas' own loss of the Stone."

Minerva frowned. "Albus, why _did_ she make him come home?"

"No doubt the brat couldn't bear unpopularity so wanted to go back to being spoiled and adored," Severus muttered.

The other two ignored him.

"She did not say, but I cannot refuse her anyway. She is his guardian."

Minerva huffed and crossed her arms. "Albus I don't trust that woman. It has been far too long with no contact. I worry something may be wrong."

The Headmaster looked down at the machines on his desk, whirring and puffing out white smoke. They were designed to monitor the wards on the Dursleys' house and, should trouble occur, immediately contact him so he could help. He'd never forgotten the guilt he felt when he arrived at James and Lily's cottage five minutes too late and seen it a burning heap. He blamed himself, always would; had he been faster they might have lived.

"So do I, Minerva," he murmured to himself. "So do I."

* * *

It was well past midnight when Sam and Dean rolled back into the motel parking lot, dirt-covered and sweaty. They'd taken a small detour to dispose of any evidence linking them to the grave desecration before heading back, and that along with having to re-bury Angela had taken well over an hour to complete making their arrival somewhere between one and three in the morning. Neither even bothered to wipe the dirt from their shoes before entering their rooms-Sam had graciously rented a separate one for himself to avoid the awkwardness of two grown men and a kid crammed into two beds.

Dean opened the door quietly, wincing at the squeak of the hinges and banking on the likelihood of Harry being asleep considering what time it was. He was correct in his assumption; the TV was on, a documentary sending blueish light across the walls, and Harry was asleep atop the bedcovers, still dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing when Dean left.

Dean unlaced his boots and slipped out of them, leaving them by the door. He crept over to the TV and switched it off, plunging the room into darkness. He made his way over to the bathroom by sense of touch, not turning on the light until he had closed the door tightly. Once he did he was free to undress and get in the shower. It was louder than he'd have liked, the pipes squealing behind the walls, but he was dirty and gross and needed to be clean.

He scrubbed himself off as quickly as he could while still actually wiping off the grime, the filth-filled water spiraling into the drain. His hair felt disgustingly greasy and it felt like the day's work wouldn't relinquish its grip on his skin. But finally the water began to run clear again and he stopped feeling like a walking bacon strip which he considered an improvement.

Switching off the water he grabbed a towel and used it to wipe himself off before tossing it beside the toilet. He pulled on a t-shirt and shorts that he'd snagged from his duffel bag, wadding the dirty clothes up into a ball and stuffing them in a plastic laundry bag until he could get around to doing them.

When he was all finished Dean cracked the door and let some of the light spill into the room. He crept over to Harry's bedside, making sure that the boy was all right. It looked like Harry had fallen asleep halfway through watching something; the remote was held loosely in his hand, his head lolled back on the pillows which were stacked behind his head.

Dean pulled the remote from his fingers and laid it on the side table, doing the same with the remnants of their take-out dinner still atop the blanket. He paused for a moment when he realized that Harry was on top of the blanket, but ended up just sweeping the comforter off his own bed and laying it over Harry. That weight change stirred Harry and he blinked open tired eyes, squinting for a moment before realizing it was Dean and giving him a sleepy smile.

Dean smile back. "Hey kiddo, sorry I woke you up." He pushed the blanket up under Harry's chin snugly.

Harry didn't seem to understand him very well. "Hi," he just said, head struggling to rise off the pillow.

"Go back to sleep, it's late. I'll see you in the morning."

Harry nodded weakly. "Kay. Mornin'." Then, without another word, his head fell back on the pillow and he was asleep again.

Dean smiled a little at the sight but his insides were twisting with guilt. He'd told Harry that he would be back late, but this was past late. Harry had been forced to sit in a room for hours waiting for Dean to return, but was still happy to see him return. Was he doing the same thing John did, dragging his son all over and forcing him to wait up to see whether or not he would come back alive? And who knew what could've happened while he was gone? Harry had been a perfectly normal kid before he got dragged into the grave-robbing, monster-killing life of the Winchesters.

Sighing to himself, tired of these questions replaying like a record in his mind, Dean shook his head and stood, walking over to the bathroom to shut off the light. He felt his way back past Harry's bed to his own and collapsed into it with a relieved groan. He pulled the thinner under-blanket up to his chin and buried his face in the pillow as he gave into the sweet relief of sleep, Harry's soft breathing a peaceful background as he drifted off.

* * *

Jo scowled to herself as she wiped a damp rag across the top of the bar, rubbing at one smudge with more force than was strictly necessary. The nearly-empty bar wasn't very open to distractions either, with all the usual customers gone until nightfall.

She looked over at her mother, who was staunchly ignoring her after their argument. Jo just didn't get what the big deal was; just because she wanted to hunt, that wasn't any excuse for her mother to be so controlling. Loads of people hunted, and she was better than all of them put together. Or she would be, if she was ever able to prove herself.

"Your mom's just trying to protect you, you know."

Jo turned her scowl on Dean, sitting in one of the bar stools and drinking a beer with a half-eaten burger in front of him. "I don't remember asking for your input. And you were a real helpful, so thanks for that." She glared at him and dropped the rag on the counter to cross her arms.

Dean sighed, giving her one of his small smiles, the ones that made her stomach go all funny. "She's known a lot of hunters Jo, so she's probably also seen her fair share of 'em die bloody. She just wants to keep that from happening to you."

"Ugh." Jo stepped towards him, arms still crossed. "You think I don't know that? But I'm not stupid, I know what I'm doing."

Dean snorted.

Her eyes narrowed and she leaned against the counter towards him. "What?"

Dean raised his eyes to meet hers. "You mean you think you know. You don't know what you're doing; you can't, you've never hunted before. But you hear all these gasbags bragging about their adventures and you think you can do better. Sister that ain't experience, that's just a load of crap they sell to make themselves look tougher." He rolled his eyes.

Jo clenched her jaw, fingers curling around the edge of the bar. "Wanna bet?"

Dean chuckled, eyes sliding back down to his plate as he shook his head. "Sorry Jo, that's not a bet I want to take. Trust me when I say you're better off not getting mixed up in this life. It eats at you, and no matter how long you hold on it'll always get you eventually."

Jo felt her frown soften and she straightened, uncrossing her arms. "What do you mean?"

Dean shrugged, looking back up but not meeting her eyes. "Nothing. Just… nothing." He grabbed his glass and took a long drink of his beer before turning and looking away.

She followed his gaze and felt a reluctant smile tugging at her lips at the sight of Sam teaching Harry how to play darts. The kid had a good arm, and Sam seemed to really be enjoying himself. Jo remembered how tense and withdrawn both men had been most of the other times she'd really been able to interact with them, and it was nice seeing another side.

"He looks like you."

She saw Dean turn to look at her out of the corner of her eye but didn't turn to meet him.

"My dad was a hunter, Dean. Most hunters don't have families, or the ones they had were killed. 'Cause having a family usually means one day they'll have to see you die or the other way around. That's what monsters do."

Then she turned to meet his gaze, giving him a smile. "It's not about the glory, Dean; I just want to keep that from happening to any other families. No one should get that better than you."

* * *

In an abandoned bathroom on the second floor of Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione sat across from each other on the cold stone floor, a cauldron bubbling furiously between them and emitting clouds of thick green smoke. The redheaded boy watched, a tad dubious, as his muggleborn friend stirred the mixture three times before dropping in the gossamer Lacewing Flies. The smoke immediately turned dark and began to coalesce into sphere-like clouds.

"And that's the last of it," Hermione proudly proclaimed, giving Ron a small grin. "The Polyjuice Potion is done."

Ron's frown deepened. "You sure about this, Hermione?"

"Definitely," she proclaimed a tad defensively. "It's exactly the color it describes in the book, and the smoke is performing the same way." Her eyes narrowed. "Why, do you think you could do better?"

Ron flushed, scowling slightly. "No," he snapped. "Snape's a ruddy awful teacher. I don't know how you get perfect scores."

Hermione looked a tad smug at that.

"It's just," Ron continued hesitantly, "it doesn't feel right to do this without Harry, y'know? I mean he's the one everyone's spreading rumours about."

Hermione nodded in agreement, shoulders slumping slightly. "I agree. But there's nothing we can really do, Ron. I tried sending him letters but Hedwig refuses to even leave the Owlery. I asked Professor McGonagall but she says that, due to him being called home so close to the holidays, he probably won't be brought back until afterwards."

Ron sighed and leaned back against the sinks. "Bollocks."

His friend dutifully ignored him, dipping the brass ladle into the concoction and spooning a large amount into two cups she'd had Ron pilfer from the Great Hall for just this purpose. It slopped down the sides, eliciting a nose wrinkle from her and a disgusted groan from Ron.

"Hermione, do we really need to do this? Isn't there like… a spell, or something?"

She pressed one of the cups into his hands, holding the other in her own. "No. Any other spell is temporary and nowhere near strong enough to do what we need. Besides, isn't it worth it to prove Harry's innocence and get Malfoy expelled?"

Ron muttered something under his breath but didn't argue.

"And now we add the hairs. Don't make that face Ron, a hair is better than, say, a toenail."

The repulsed expression was instantly overtaken by a horrified one. "Yuck, that's a real thing?" He shuddered. "I hate Potions."

Hermione decided against arguing, having had that sort of argument with him enough times in the past. Still, even she appeared perturbed upon seeing how her own glass of Polyjuice changed. "Millicent Bulstrode is a very unattractive grey color and smells like kitty litter." Disgusted, yet curious, she looked at Ron. "What did yours look like?"

Ron just shuddered. "Let's just say it fits that we're in a bathroom," he answered. "Goyle's ruddy awful."

Hermione swallowed, trying to quash her nerves down with it. "Well come on then Ron. To proving Harry's innocence." She held it towards him to toast.

He rolled his eyes but obligingly clinked his glass. "Yea."

Then they both downed their potions.

* * *

**A****/N: I bet you are all wondering why I keep repeating these moments of introspection for Dean. The reason is that I am reinforcing, both for you and for him, that the most important thing in his mind is keeping Harry's safe. Not just from the monsters, but in some case from the truth, which he is worried will hurt Harry. Now, as we know from the books, Harry has the unfortunate habit of digging up answers himself.**

**In case it is not obvious at this point, I have no intention of changing certain episodes very much. Now this rule is certainly not for all, or even most, but it may be common for this season and the next simply because of Harry's age. I only include elements of it so you all know where they are, and for ones where certain elements of an episode's plot do come into play. I am also skipping several because they would have no purpose within the story.**

**If you're interested this chapter spans from _Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things_ to roughly around _No Exit._**


	6. Distortion

**A/N: IMPORTANT - I HAVE REWRITTEN CHAPTER 1. It does not change the end result but it goes about in a better way. It may take a moment to replace though.**

* * *

Dean yawned softly, wiping a hand across his face as he looked around the interrogation room he'd been placed in. It had all the markings of a run-down police station in a no-star city; cracked tile walls, dirty, scuffed floors, and a two-way mirror with several dents in it. Certainly, it was not the worst one he'd been in.

The door opened and he looked up, sitting a bit straighter as two cops entered. Both were lacking uniforms, which likely meant that they were technically detectives, not cops. One was a woman with dirty-blonde hair and the other was a dark-haired man with an ugly sneer painted on his face. Good cop and bad cop then.

He offered them a falsely sincere smile, opening his handcuffed hands. "Come on in," he greeted, "make yourselves at home."

Neither responded, just standing there. The man was still sneering so Dean decided to ignore him, turning to look at the woman. She took the silent cue and took a small step forward. "Dean Winchester?" she asked, though it was less of a question. She didn't wait for an answer. "My name is Detective Diana Ballard. You're being held here under suspicion of breaking and entering and homicide. Do you want to make this quick and confess?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow at her and continued to smile, not deigning to answer.

She shrugged. "Alright then, hard way it is." She grabbed the back of the chair opposite him and pulled it out, taking a seat in it and folding her arms neatly before her while her colleague stayed lurking behind like a shadow. "You were found in the home of Karen Giles, after she called the police to report an intruder, literally with blood on your hands. And we just retrieved your brother from the motel where you were staying; he is being brought in for questioning as well."

At that Dean sat up straighter, the phony smile wiped from his face. "Sam?" he questioned. "Just him?"

Diana cocked an eyebrow slightly and smirked. "No, we brought in your son as well. However, he isn't being held by us and has been moved to a temporary guardian until we sort this out."

The handcuff chain clinked as Dean's fists curled tighter, the only reaction he gave. "Sam and Harry were there all night. I dropped them off at the motel after dinner, there are security cameras—"

She held up a hand to cut him off. "We have the footage which is why Sam hasn't been charged with anything. We're just holding him for now." She glanced over at her partner for a moment. "You, however, are not so easily alibied. So I need you to tell me what happened last night."

Dean didn't speak for a long moment, just staring at her evenly before finally opening his mouth. "I want to talk to Harry."

Diana sighed softly and shook her head, leaning back in her chair. "That's not going to happen, Dean," she answered with more than a touch of annoyance. "You won't get to see Harry or Sam until we get the full story and either charge or release you."

The man in the back made a small noise at the word 'release', though Dean paid him no mind.

"Harry's my kid, isn't it considered kidnapping if you take him without my permission?" Dean still hadn't raised his voice but there was more than a touch of hostility in his tone.

Diana continued to meet his stare with a level gaze, though the man growled at Dean's words and spoke up. "We don't ask permission from _wanted felons_," he snapped, leaning forward enough for his features to be put into the light, menacing shadows stretching across his face. "For all we know you'll just kill the kid just like you did Karen and Tony!"

Dean jerked back at the man's words, eyes widening for a moment before they narrowed and his lips curled in disgust. "I don't know what you're talking about," he snapped, clenching his jaw.

Diana held out a hand to stop her partner but he took another step forward, ignoring the way she reached for him. "Oh yea," he breathed, eyes gleaming, "we found the warrant issued in St. Louis, Dean." He hissed Dean's name like a curse word. "Does the name _Emily Priester_ ring a bell?"

Dean bared his teeth, voice rising as he spat right back, "You don't know what you're talking about!"

The detective mimicked the gesture, revealing his own teeth. "I bet you don't."

"_Pete_!" Diana finally cried, silencing them both with a fierce glare of her own. She stood and grabbed the man—Pete—'s arm, tugging him away from the table. "You are _way_ out of line Pete," she whispered, though not quietly enough to keep Dean from hearing. "He's just a suspect right now and we won't even have confirmation of the St. Louis thing until they finish exhuming the body and running DNA tests. So you need to _back off_."

Pete scowled darkly, shooting a glare back towards Dean, who returned an equally fiery one. "You're right," he finally admitted, looking back down at her and taking a deep breath. "Tony was a friend of mine. I guess I just got a little too worked up."

Diana nodded, grabbing his arm gently. "Why don't you step outside? I can finish this myself; take a breather."

He nodded, though clearly reluctantly. "Alright, good idea. I'll do that."

As he passed the table Dean scowled at him, continuing to glare until the man had closed the door behind him. "Real charmer, that one," he muttered, turning to look back at Diana.

She just sighed and returned to her seat, once again folding her hands in front of her and meeting his eyes straight-on. "Now let's start from the beginning, Dean. How did you know Tony Giles?"

* * *

Harry's bag felt heavy in his hand as he looked around the room he'd been given, trying to use the surroundings to distract from how he'd landed here. It was a simple room, rather bare but clean, with two beds against either wall. The furniture was worn but stable-looking and there was a conspicuous lack of personal items.

The tightness in Harry's throat increased slightly and he swallowed, trying to force down the bundle of nerves that kept him standing beside the bed, unwilling to sit or lie down even when his entire body was aching to sleep. He was worried that, should he fall asleep, he would wake up to find everything crumbling around his ears.

A knock came from the doorway and he turned so sharply that he dropped his bag, it landing on the carpet with a soft thump. The owner of the house—an older lady named Ms. Fields—was standing in the opening, smiling at him slightly, her grey-streaked brown hair done up in a bun similar to Professor McGonagall's. "Are you all settled in then?" she asked, taking in the bag on the floor and the clothes he had been wearing all through yesterday and last night when she picked him up at the police station. If she had any opinions she didn't share them, just smiling wider at him. "I thought you might like something to eat after the night you had. I was going to make some breakfast."

Food was the farthest thing from Harry's mind, his chest too tightly wound for him to consider eating, but still his traitorous stomach growled at the word and he blushed slightly in embarrassment, glancing down at his feet. Ms. Fields seemed to take that as a yes because he saw her nod, and she said, "Alright then, it should be ready in ten minutes or so. I trust that you know your way to the kitchen?"

Harry nodded, not answering or meeting her eyes. Instead he stared at the crack in the plaster just to the right of the doorway, hoping she would leave him be.

She seemed to take the message and nodded once more. He could see her smile from the corner of his eye—sad but compassionate—and as she left he felt a little bit guilty for being so rude to her._ It isn't her fault_, he reminded himself. _She is just nice enough to let me stay in her house until this is over_.

Unfortunately that didn't make him feel any better as it only returned his attention to the reason he had ended up here. Harry turned away from the doorway and walked over to the bed, giving into the ache in his legs and sinking onto the mattress, though he refused to allow himself to fall asleep.

He hadn't slept in over a day. The last time he'd been able to was last night when he was in the motel room with Sam, but they'd chosen to wait up for Dean instead at Harry's request. Sam had spent the time telling him stories about Dean when they were little; the time Dean ate three whole pies and got sick in the middle of school, the time he first tried to drive the Impala and backed it into a dumpster, and once when he'd accidentally drunk their father's beer and gotten so drunk he thought he could fly. It was fun to listen to the stories; no one had ever told him about what James and Lily were really like beside how much like them he was (which seemed to be untrue), but Sam was all-too-eager to share.

Sam was just as nice as Dean was, which Harry hadn't expected to be possible. Even if he'd only known him for a little while Sam had already far outranked the Dursleys if only because he never tried to make Harry do work, and in fact seemed vehemently opposed to the mere notion. He and Dean constantly joked with each other and it felt so much… _happier_ than anything Harry was used to.

And yet…

Harry sighed to himself, looking down at the dusty old carpet, digging the sole of his ratty trainer into it. Everything seemed so good, perfect even, and then this happened. He kept telling himself that it wasn't anything bad, that it was just a mistake or something, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

Sam and Dean had been arrested by the police. It all happened so fast it was a blur; one moment Sam was teaching him how to play Go Fish, the next he was being pushed into a police car and brought to the station.

Too agitated to sit still any longer, Harry pushed himself off the bed and began to pace, hands worrying the hem of his shirt. His imagination was unhelpfully supplying questions he didn't know how to answer. _Are they alright? What happened? Why won't they tell me? Where was Dean?_ And, most troubling; _what do the police think they did_?

Harry gnawed on a fingernail for a moment as he tried to think of something he could do. Unfortunately nothing came to mind; this was a lot different than sneaking through the castle under his Invisibility Cloak or trying to help Hagrid get Norbert to Romania. Sam and Dean could be in real trouble and he had no idea what he was supposed to do to help them.

Harry continued to pace back and forth across the small room, trying and failing to think of a plan; that was always Hermione's specialty, not Harry's. She would've known what to do right now. She would've remembered some obscure law or something that made them listen to her, or known some trick to finding out answers—

Harry paused suddenly as he heard voices, train of thought derailing. He frowned but walked towards the door, curiosity peaking as he leaned his head around the corner to listen.

It was Ms. Fields, soft voice echoing through the quiet house to his ears. "…of course officer," she was saying. "Not much yet, but it's understandable. It's usually difficult for children even of his age…"

Feet moving almost of their own volition Harry crept out of the room and down the hall, taking slow steps in case the floor creaked like the Dursleys' did next to the couch. As he made his way around the corner and towards the kitchen the voices got louder and he could understand more of what she was saying. She's on the phone, he realized with a flash of disappointment. He'd been hoping that maybe the police officer was back to bring him to see Dean and Sam, but no such luck. He made his way forward until he was just outside the kitchen and pressed himself against the wall.

Ms. Fields had paused for a moment and Harry couldn't make out the voice on the other end. Then she spoke up. "It's shocking no matter the circumstances. Harry's twelve; he's old enough to question what is going on." She paused to listen to the voice on the other end. "I understand that you can't tell him all of it, but doesn't he deserve at least some answer as to why he was yanked from his family so abruptly?"

Harry pressed himself more firmly into the wall, heart beating so fast he was amazed that Ms. Fields couldn't hear it even from across the room. They were talking about him. And, more importantly, what had happened last night.

"Detective, I know you're just doing your job but please try to see it from his side. This isn't just about the justice the victim deserves, this is about the justice that the Winchesters deserve as well."

Harry barely managed to stifle a gasp at the word victim. Did they think that Dean did something to someone? Hurt someone?

Luckily neither voice paused at the sound of his gasp. "I know how this works," Ms. Fields continued, "and I know you will need to hear his side of the story just as much as theirs. I only ask that you give him the answers any family member would get. Even if you can't tell him that his father has been arrested for murder, you can at least tell him…"

The voices faded to a buzzing and Harry's breath caught in his chest. His heart seemed to skip a beat and he stood, still as a statue, the words that he had just heard spinning around his head like a Ferris Wheel, one phrase standing out above all others.

_Arrested for murder._

He was going to be sick.

* * *

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Ta-tap.

Dean looked up as the door swung open with a loud creak, cutting off his monosyllabic version of Smoke On the Water halfway through the intro. He gave Detective Sheridan a bright smile as he walked in. "Oh, hiya Sherry."

He could see the veins in the man's neck pop out as he clenched his jaw, but the man just gave him a tight smile and took the chair opposite his own, tossing a small pile of papers onto the table. He leaned back in his seat, placing one hand on the edge of the table and levelling Dean with a flat look. "You're pretty cocky for a guy about to spend the rest of his days eating mush and getting cozy with guys who aren't so fond of wit as they are a pretty face."

Dean just shrugged, unfazed. "Yea, well, you know what they say about humour covering up the fear and all that." He flashed another fake grin. "Oh wait, that's just me actually having a sense of humour, not being a stick-up-the-ass junkless like yourself."

Sheridan's eyes narrowed and Dean absently noted how dark the man's irises were, almost black. "Think you're real smart, don't you? Well you were stupid enough to get caught at the murder scene twice now, and this time you won't be getting away."

Dean leaned back, placing his handcuffed hands behind his head and tilting the chair back onto its back legs. "Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that."

Sheridan continued to stare for a long moment, and Dean was about to make another comment when suddenly the man smiled. It wasn't a nice smile either; it made him look strangely inhuman and almost hungry. He reached forward and grabbed the papers he brought in, turning them to face Dean.

He dropped his chair back onto all four legs and leaned forward, frowning as he read it. As his eyes skimmed down the page they widened slightly, and when he reached the bottom he looked back up. Sheridan was grinning now, showing way too much teeth. "A confession?" Dean asked, blinking slowly. "You expect me to sign a confession?"

Sheridan's grin widened and he nodded slowly. "Not just for Karen, but for that girl in St. Louis too. Maybe even throw in some of the victims we've found between here and there in the past few weeks; enough to get you locked up forever, if not the death sentence."

Dean leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in honest bewilderment. "And why the hell would I sign this?" He snorted and cocked an eyebrow. "Man, that lady of yours is really aiming downhill, isn't she?"

Yet still Sheridan's eerie grin remained fixed in place, and that caused a shiver of foreboding to creep up Dean's back. "Oh, you'll sign it," he retorted, "because you won't like what'll happen otherwise."

"What's gonna happen?" Dean leaned forward across the table.

Sheridan cocked his head to the side. "Your brother Sam hasn't been charged with anything, but I can change that. We found some partial prints at the scene-they are inadmissible in court but only if the judge knows they're partial prints. Breaking and entering at the very least."

Dean stiffened and clenched his fists, voice lowering, "You wouldn't be able to do that, Sam's a law student, he'd be able to get out of that without breaking a sweat."

"True." Sheridan raised an eyebrow, taunting. "But Harry isn't."

Dean's breath stilled.

"We dug up a whole lot about him, you see. School records. Medical records. You know, that adoption of yours had a whole lot of holes in it. Holes it would be all-too-easy to pick at. Even if we don't nail you I can make sure you never see him again."

Dean's fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.

"And who's to say he wasn't in on it, too? I bet a good psychologist could argue Stockholm Syndrome, get him under psychological review. I have a friend who does that. And if they think the home is unsafe, well…" He paused and fixed his eyes on Dean's. "He can be removed. Permanently."

"I'd like to see you try," Dean spat out, all humour gone from his voice.

Suddenly Sheridan let out a short bark of a laugh. "I'm the oldest detective on the force, Dean. I go golfing with the Chief every weekend, the state judge has known me since I was in high school." He bared his teeth like a dog. "I have all the cards here."

Sheridan rose from his chair, spreading his arms out across the table and leaning in towards Dean, whose face was as still as stone. "Or maybe Harry needs to be locked up in juvie, for his own safety of course," the man whispered, nose almost touching Dean's. "I know just the place. I know a guy who works as a guard there. And he would just love to meet a boy as pretty as Harry-"

There was no warning as Dean leapt over the table like a wildcat, hands closing around Sheridan's throat as he flung him to the ground, straddling him, shouting "Bastard!" at him as he smashed his head back against the floor again and again. "You touch him you fucking piece of shit and I'll rip you apart with my bare hands-"

Cops swarmed the room, grabbing Dean's arms and legs and prying him forcefully off of Sheridan. It took three just to dislodge the choking grip he had even with his handcuffs, and all five to pin him to the floor even as he struggled to get up, swear words dripping from his lips as he glared at Sheridan with enough heat to melt steel.

"Pete?" asked one of the other detectives as he entered, "What happened? The mike was off, someone forgot to turn it on, I couldn't hear a thing."

Sheridan looked down at Dean, offering him a fleeting smirk, managing to look triumphant even with the bruises covering his neck and the blood flowing from his nose. "I offered him a chance to confess and he didn't like it. Attacked me when I told him that he needed to tell the truth."

The other man nodded slowly, taking every word at face value. "Sick bastard," he spat, looking down at Dean, who was glaring up at him with murder in his eyes. "Lunatic has no humanity, does he?"

"No," said Sheridan as he turned away, "I guess not."

The door swung shut before Sheridan's smirk, Dean's litany of curses silencing as the door closed with a snap.

* * *

Diana took a seat in the living room, a cup of coffee steaming slowly on the table in front of her. Opposite her, seated on the worn blue couch, was the boy who was unmistakably Dean Winchester's son. If she hadn't been on the scene when they arrested Sam and took both in she would've surely been convinced now.

Harry looked well, all things considered. His hair was messy and unkempt but that seemed to be its natural state. His green eyes appeared a touch brighter than Dean's, a contrast due to the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed a tad pale but it could have also merely been his natural look.

Analysis complete Diana offered him a small smile, leaning forward and relaxing her shoulders to create a more trustworthy figure. Harry's eyes flickered slightly but he remained as stiff and uncertain-looking as he'd been when she got here; as if someone had placed an ice cube to his spine.

"Hello Harry," she greeted, "my name is Detective Diana Ballard. I work for the Baltimore Police Department. I met you briefly before but I didn't get a chance to officially introduce myself." She held out her hand in greeting.

Harry started at her hand for a long moment as if uncertain before setting his jaw (much like Dean had done) and shaking her hand. "Hi," he greeted, his voice a tad hoarse. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, shifting back and forth, before looking up at her. While his posture was still stiff his eyes were a clear window to his emotions, and she could see the worry and hope within. "Are you the one who is talking to Dean?"

The question ended with a hopeful tone, making it clear that Harry was hoping to find out something from her. She just smiled and nodded. "I am. Not just me, but I am the lead on his case." She cleared her throat and sat up a bit straight. "Now Harry, I need to talk to you about last night—"

"You think Dean killed someone?"

Diana's words died in her throat along with any other questions she planned to ask. She simply blinked for a moment, caught off-guard by the abrupt question, and only when what he'd asked registered did she speak. "Where did you hear that?"

Harry didn't answer, instead just staring at her, piercing green eyes intense. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to find because he suddenly slumped in his seat and fell back against the back cushion, face crumpling like his posture. "Dean wouldn't kill someone," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "He wouldn't. He… he's not like that."

She was torn. Part of her wanted to dissuade him, try to find out how he'd heard that, but at the same time… "Do you know what my job is, Harry?" she asked him. He looked up at her, confused, and she continued. "A lot of people think that detectives hunt down criminals. That's not true. My job is to find the truth. Facts. It's not to pin the blame on someone; it's to find the answers."

"Dean's not a murderer," Harry stated. His voice was firm but there was a distinct waver to it, and it was clear that he was trying to convince himself just as much as her. "He's nice, and funny, and…" He took a breath. "He's not."

Diana didn't know what to say to that, and so kept her mouth closed. She wanted to console him, to tell him that he didn't have to worry, but giving false hope like that would only do more harm than good. Because if Dean was the killer then Harry would be the one most hurt. And for his sake she dearly hoped he wasn't.

* * *

"You mean the kid had nothing to say? He didn't see _anything_?" Pete asked, face pulling into an irritated scowl. "He's only twelve, how can he be that oblivious? Or maybe he was just lying?"

Diana frowned at him and leaned back slightly. "What's got into you Pete? Are you alright?" She reached out and grabbed his forearm to stop his walk down the hall, meeting his eyes. She made sure not to hold him too close or risk getting called out for unprofessional behavior in the workplace.

He held her gaze for a moment and she could see the frustration and anger lurking beneath. He'd been getting angrier and angrier recently and it was really starting to worry her; he had used to be so calm and kind, but now it seemed like he was constantly frustrated.

Then he smiled and she felt a little bit better, Pete moving his hand to catch hers and hold it. "Yea, sorry. It's just this whole thing, this case. Tony and Karen were good people and the thought of this guy getting away with it doesn't sit right with me." He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Did you get anything from the big one?"

Diana sighed. "Sam's story matches Dean's to the last detail."

"Hmm. Yeah, well, these guys are good. I'll give 'em that."

"If we don't get either of them to flip we have nothing but a lot of circumstantial evidence."

Pete frowned for a long moment. "Have you considered that the kid might be in on it? Pulling the big eyes and lying to get them off the hook?"

Diana shook her head in disbelief. "I don't think so, Pete. He's twelve, his uncle and father just got arrested, I doubt he has enough presence of mind to even consider lying. He was genuinely shocked to find out what was going on." She shot him an odd look for a moment. "Besides we have the surveillance of both him and Sam getting dropped off at the motel at the same time the coroner says the murder would've taken place."

"But Dean is nowhere to be seen after that," he pointed out. "We've got Dean at the crime scene with blood on his hands. Juries have convicted for less."

"Yea but-" Her brow furrowed and she crossed her arms, "I mean, where's the murder weapon? What's the motive? He had a kid and a brother a mile away. You talk about reasonable doubt…" She shook her head.

"Diana." Pete touched her chin, pushing her head up so he could look her in the eyes. "I'm telling you, this Dean guy is our guy. We just keep leaning and someone will break, either the kid or the brother." He paused for a moment in thought. "What if we offer the squirt a trade of some kind?"

"A trade? What do you mean?"

"You know." Pete shrugged again. "Try to get him to spit it out. Tell him that if he gives something up we can let him go home with Sam."

"The Chief would never go for that, Pete. Forty-eight hours for both, he said."

"Yea-" Pete smirked. "But Harry doesn't know that."

Diana frowned, concerned and a little bit uncomfortable that Pete had even suggested that. "Pete," she began slowly, "Harry is completely innocent in all this. He doesn't need to be lied to for answers. It will only hurt him."

The smirk on his face slid away to a frown, brow creasing, and just for the briefest moment she could've sworn that he was angry at her—but then it was gone and he was his normal self, sighing and running a hand over his head. "Yea, I guess you're right." He gave her a tired smile. "What would I do without you?"

Diana sighed and rolled her eyes, banishing the uncertain creeping sensation still lurking under her skin. "Go finish your paperwork, I need to go to the restroom, alright?"

"Alright." Pete leaned in to give her a kiss, but Diana startled herself by jerking backwards.

"Sorry," she blurted out at his confused stare. "I just… sorry, not feeling so good. I, uh, don't want you to get something from me."

His frown lingered but he nodded reluctantly. "Oh. Okay." He nodded and smiled. "See you later then?"

"Bye," Diana answered as he walked away, trying to ignore the goosebumps on her arms where he grabbed her. Shivering, she turned and walked down the hallway, trying to put it from her mind.

* * *

By the time Dean finally unlocked the handcuffs and let them fall into the dirt beside the corpse of Detective Pete Sheridan, the sun was already peeping its edge over the horizon, bathing the trio in morning light.

"I think that's the last we've seen of this ghost," Dean commented as he wiped his hands off on his jeans and turned to the other two. "So, uh. What now, officer?"

Diana sighed, turning to look at the cooling body lying in the dirt. "Pete did confess to me. He screwed up both your cases royally. I'd say that there's a good chance that we could get your cases dismissed."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise. "You'd take care of that for us?" he asked.

"I hope so. But the St. Louis murder charges? That's another story. I can't help you." She looked over at the van, still wedged in-between two trees, and a thoughtful expression appeared on her face as she turned back. "Unless... I just happened to turn my back, and you walked away. I could just tell them that the suspects escaped. "

Sam jerked in surprise. "Wait, are you sure? I mean, you could lose your job over something like that. "

Dean shot Sam a _Shut up!_ look but his brother ignored it.

She just sighed and shook her head. "Look, I just want you guys out there doing what you do best. Trust me, I'll sleep better at night knowing you're keeping innocent people safe."

"Hey," Dean chimed in, stepping forward, "speaking of innocent people, where's Harry?" While it may have been phrased as a question it was clearly a demand.

Diana just smiled slightly. "I can go get him. It wouldn't be a good idea if you guys were seen so soon after the arrest."

"Wait," said Sam, "won't you be incriminated if someone asks what happened?"

A smirk slid across her face and she winked at him. "Don't worry," she said, "I have a friend who owes me a favor."

Sam smiled back and looked over at Dean, who gave her one of his own. They took a few steps towards the road before Dean paused and turned. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where my car is, would you?"

"It's at the impound yard down on Robertson." She paused at Dean's calculating look and scowled. "Don't... even think about it."

"It's okay, it's all right, don't worry. We'll, uh, we'll just improvise. I mean, we're pretty good at that."

She laughed once. "Yeah. I've noticed."

Dean and Sam shared a smile and turned, heading back over to the dirt road they'd arrived on. As they began their trek back to civilization Sam tapped his brother's shoulder. "Hey, Dean, what are you going to tell Harry about all this? I mean, he'll want to know what happened, and if they try to come after us…" He hesitated. "What are you going to say?"

Dean let out a long sigh, looking up at the rising sun before turning back to Sam, setting his jaw firmly. "What I should've told him from the beginning. The truth."

* * *

It seemed like hours before Harry was finally back in Dean's custody and they were speeding along the highway, away from Baltimore. They had about a day's head-start and had every intention of making full use of that. They drove for two hours straight before Dean finally deemed them far enough away and began to look for a place to grab a bit and hash out the full story.

The diner they ended up in was a quaint little mom-and-pop's just west of the Maryland/West Virginia border. Since it was still before noon the Winchesters were pretty much the only customers, and had seated themselves in a booth in the back, away from prying eyes or ears.

Breakfast was an awkward affair. Harry had been quiet ever since Dean picked him up, and any attempts to engage him in conversation were answered with shrugs or one-word replies. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Harry was still in a state of uncertainty after everything that had happened, and while it dug a little into Dean's chest that Harry might think he actually did have something to do with all the stuff that happened, he was also aware of the fact that his son's trust in him was probably not so secure to blindly have faith. So he barely managed to wait until they had finished their food before nudging Sam's foot under the table and nodding briefly.

Getting the hint, Sam put down his utensils and pushed his plate away. "I'm all finished," he said, wiping off his mouth with a napkin. "You guys finish up, I'm gonna head out and finish switching out our plates."

Dean hid a wince at the lie as he watched Sam slide out of the booth and make for the door. Mentioning 'switching out plates' probably didn't send the most trustworthy message to Harry. But Dean didn't say anything until Sam was out the door, leaving just him and Harry. Harry clearly understood that Sam's leaving wasn't just coincidence and his shoulders had tensed slightly, body language marking him as uncertain and a little bit scared. Very similar to what he'd acted like that first day he met Dean.

Dean sighed and pushed his own dishes to the side, folding his arms and leaning against the table. Harry met his eyes but the uncertainty was bright and noticeable.

"I know you're probably confused about what happened," Dean began, going for earnest. "I'm really sorry that you had to go through that, Harry. I never wanted…" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Let me start over. I'm sure you have questions?"

Harry simply eyed him for a moment, teeth worrying over his bottom lip. Then he spoke. "They said you were arrested for murder."

Dean couldn't hide the wince this time. "I was," he admitted, deciding that, like Sam said, it was better to tell the truth outright than lie and hope it wasn't discovered. "The police thought that I killed someone."

Harry's frown increased. "Did you?"

Dean didn't let his face show how much the question kicked him, that Harry would ever think... "No," he answered instead, shaking his head earnestly. "I didn't kill her. I just couldn't help her in time." He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was coming next. "Harry, you need to know something about what Sam and I do. We're not… we don't work for the government or anything, like I told you. I lied, and I'm sorry; I shouldn't have done that."

The frown increased even more and Dean got the sudden feeling that Harry was at his most decisive right at this moment; that whatever he felt right now was going to determine a lot.

He cleared his throat. "Sam and I are hunters. But we don't hunt animals. We hunt monsters."

Harry blinked. And blinked again. He leaned back, frown replaced with a wide-eyed stare, and didn't seem to know how to respond. "Monsters?" he asked slowly.

No doubt so far. That was good. "There's a lot more to the world than most people know about, Harry. Stuff that the rest of the world isn't ready to know about." He paused for a moment to gauge Harry's reaction. He expected some sort of disbelief or confusion but Harry was just staring, neither emotion present.

Harry swallowed, not breaking eye contact. "What kind of… stuff?"

"Ghosts," Dean said simply. "Werewolves and vampires. Demons. A lot more, too. Monsters. They hurt innocent people and it's our job to stop them."

"Stop them?"

Dean hesitated for a moment. He knew that he needed to be completely honest, but telling Harry that he was a killer, even if he hadn't killed Karen, was still something he knew might not be taken well. "Forcefully," he answered instead. "Whatever we need to do to keep them from hurting other people."

Harry frowned. "Ghosts hurt people? I thought they..." He trailed off and shot Dean a tentative look, as if doubting what was coming out of his own mouth,

Dean nodded. "Sometimes. When a ghost died because of something bad, a lot of times they come back to hurt people other people, and when that happens they're monsters."

It was rather strange how well Harry was taking this. Dean had expected disbelief, fear, even anger, but Harry merely seemed deeply curious about what he was being told.

"Why do they hurt people? Do all of them do that? Aren't any of them… you know, good?"

Dean thought back to what Sam had told him, about the vampire, Lenore. "Yea," he answered, discarding what his brother had said. There was simply no way a vampire could still be a person. They were bloodsucking monsters, that was it. "They can't help it. Most are like animals, they can't fight the instincts. And then some of them are downright evil and hurt people just for the joy of it."

Harry's face was unreadable. He didn't seem scared, angry, or disbelieving, which Dean considered a plus, but he also didn't seem completely accepting. "And…" he began hesitantly, almost seeming worried. "They're not… people?"

Dean shook his head. "We don't hurt people," he stated. Harry really was very much like Sam at that age. Both so concerned about others, even when they didn't necessarily deserve it. "Monsters aren't people. Then he paused, remembering the few humans he'd met who were little better than monsters. "Well, most anyway."

Harry cocked his head to the side. "Most?"

"Yea. Most monsters are just freaks of nature, they can't really help it. But some people are so twisted that they _choose_ to be like that. They're still human but they are nothing more than monsters with magic."

Dean missed the way Harry stiffened at the word magic.

"Witches are people—men or women—who sell their souls for power." He grimaced in remembrance, shaking his head. "They use demons to get power and then use it to hurt other people whenever the demon tells them to. All kinds of twisted spells with human bones and—" Dean cut himself off, not wanting to traumatize the kid. "Anyway, they're the worst because they betray their own species. They're traitors. But we don't run into them a lot because most people aren't stupid enough to think that magic is worth your soul."

Harry's eyes were wide, and he looked a little pale, but Dean reasoned that it was just the fact that all these things existed really setting in. "And..." He began, licking his lips hesitantly. "You… hunt them?"

"If it's not human or if it's a human messing with freaky magic, then we stop them. Permanently." Dean nodded. "Our father got started doing it when my mom died. She was killed by a demon when Sam and I were little."

Harry swallowed again, clearly taking it all in. "S-So when they thought you killed that woman..?"

"That was a ghost. Well, a ghost didn't kill her but it was a ghost who helped us find the killer. I was tracking it and was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Harry nodded, though he didn't seem to be entirely focused.

Dean reached over the table and grabbed Harry's shoulder, jolting the boy out of his thoughts so he could focus on Dean. "You alright?" he asked. "I know this is a little hard to take in and you might not believe me—"

"No," Harry interrupted quickly, clearing his throat. "No, I-… I believe you. It's just," he shrugged and gave a weak smile, "a lot to take in."

Dean relaxed and gave him an understanding smile. "I get it. But don't worry, I promise I won't keep anything else from you. I don't want to lie to you." He patted Harry's shoulder. "You're my son and I love you, no matter what."

Harry gave him a smile in return but said nothing, his eyes not meeting Dean's.

* * *

Snow fell softly outside the window of the motel room, layering a soft coat of white over everything. All was silent, the winter night blanketing everything with a quiet calm.

Inside the room, the lights were off and it was just as quiet as it was outside. Dean's soft breathing filled the space, one arm dangling off the side of the bed nearest Harry's. However, the other bed was empty, its occupant having moved to the single chair beside the window, looking out over the parking lot.

What Dean had told Harry today hadn't left his mind. He'd be relieved at first, to know that Dean hadn't been a killer, and a part of him was even excited when Dean told him about his real job. Werewolves, vampires, _ghosts_—those weren't the sort of creatures an ordinary muggle knew about. He'd been hoping, perhaps a bit prematurely, that he would be absolved of his fear and that Dean would show an openness to the possibility of magic that the Dursleys had never possessed.

But Harry was wrong. Very wrong, because what Dean told him made the Dursleys look almost kind. Dean didn't just know about magic, no, he _hated_ it and the people who used it. He'd called them traitors. He'd called _Harry_ a traitor. And he talked about killing them like he was doing a good thing.

Harry took a shuddering breath, casting a glance back towards Dean's sleeping form. After the revelation his skin wouldn't stop crawling, as if he somehow expected Dean to sense his magic and turn on him. Obviously that wasn't the case but that knowledge didn't stop the worry curling in Harry's gut, knowing that he was only a few feet from someone who would kill him without a second thought.

_Would he though?_ Harry's mind chimed in curiously. _Dean told him that he loved him, no matter what._

_Don't be stupid,_ Harry chided himself silently. Dean said that witches sold their souls to demons for magic, and that his mother was killed by a demon. Harry didn't even know that demons were real, aside from his aunt always calling him one, but Dean undoubtedly would think he'd done the same. And Harry had enough experience trying to convince unfriendly relatives that he wasn't defined by his magic.

It figured that when he finally had a real family, one who didn't hate him, that they would hate what he was. And what's worse possibly kill him for it.

Harry looked out the window, watching the odd car speed down the road, headlights piercing the dim. He could run away, he knew. It might be a good idea; take his wand and his Cloak and just sneak away and find some way to get back to Hogwarts. If he didn't have to worry about Dean finding out, then what was the point in pretending? Staying here was just a bad idea; maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday Dean would find out the truth and come after him.

Harry leaned his head against the cool glass. As much as he wanted to, he wouldn't. Because he knew that, even with what Dean said still burning into him, that he cared about Dean and Dean cared about him, and that if he ran away it would hurt them both. But he also couldn't tell Dean because he knew that would only end badly.

He sighed softly, his breath fanning across the window. If only he had someone to talk to, someone to tell him what to do. He needed help. He needed a friend. He needed—

A sudden loud _thunk_ startled him so badly that he nearly fell from his chair, he jumped so hard. In bed Dean grunted and rolled over, shifting slightly. The cause of the sound was a large dark shape that had rammed into the window at a high speed, and which was now lying on the snowy pavement in front of the window. Harry instantly recognized the outstretched wings and talons, heartbeat picking up as he realized what it was. He stood from the chair and crept to the door, keeping a watchful eye on Dean. He thanked his lucky stars that Dean was dead-tired from the long day as he gently pried open the front door, much like how he used to creep out of his cupboard, and stepped outside. The cold bit into his bare feet but that was easily ignored as he looked at the creature lying in front of him.

The owl was speckled brown, a bit bigger than Hedwig. It would've reached up to Harry's knees if he was standing beside it, and appeared utterly exhausted. Large patches of feathers were missing from its body and Harry was positive he didn't imagine the way it was taking large heaving breaths, clacking its beak wearily. But it still managed to hold up its feet, in which a small package was clenched. The moment Harry grabbed it the owl slumped back down onto the ground, unconscious.

Clearly the owl was in a less than ideal state of health, and normally Harry would have been concerned, but at that exact moment any concern was overruled quite strongly by excitement at the realization that he'd been sent something by someone from his world. Perhaps Dumbledore had decided to check on him, or Ron and Hermione got worried, or-

That train of thought cut off quite abruptly as Harry peeled back the paper on the package, confusion overpowering the previous excitement. He checked the inside of the paper once more, hoping that he'd missed an envelope addressed to him, but he found nothing. So, a frown decorating his face, Harry turned his attention back to the only object contained within, and he held it up to the light outside the room to see better.

The notebook was slim and dark, its surface smooth and unmarked. He flipped it over and found nothing, then turned it back to the front and opened up the cover. Inside, written in faded curling letters, was a name.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

* * *

**A/N: I HAVE REWRITTEN CHAPTER 1. IT DOES NOT CHANGE END RESULT BUT IS MUCH BETTER.**

**And now you know why I've been dying for this chapter. Also, no offense to people who live in Baltimore when Dean called it a no-star city. He's kinda an ass.**


End file.
